Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  When the call came in from Reed an hour later, Ute assumed he was about to be chastised for his efforts, that both men had run downstairs and cried their eyes out, telling on him for being too rough. To his surprise, Reed never said a single word about the encounter, the first positive sign he’d seen from the old man since things got started.

  It had taken longer than Ute would have liked, but the team was starting to embrace the unique role he could play in the trial moving forward.

  Rather than call to talk about the encounter, Reed had said that a second stab at a settlement was going to be attempted the next day. As it stood, they didn’t have enough leverage to entice Laszlo to settle, but thought that Ute could provide them with something that would do just that.

  A demented laugh rolled out of Ute at the directive, filling the airspace for almost a full minute. By the time he was done, Reed’s voice was no more than a whisper as he again asked that the target not be Laszlo or Bentley and that there be no bodies.

  Anything else was fair game.

  Given that Wilson was already out of the picture and Laszlo and Bentley were both off limits, the choice was an easy one to make. Ute never touched a woman if at all possible, not in accordance to some sort of chivalrous code, but because of their penchant for screaming at the slightest brush. There was no way one of his victims could ever overpower him, but alerting everybody within shouting distance was something he had to at least give a passing consideration to.

  That left the old man, a task that was so simple it bordered on not even being a challenge. Fortunately for Ute, he was still riding high from his morning spent in the hotel room, his body just starting to come down from the effects of the adrenaline surge he’d received.

  Right on schedule, the sun overhead disappeared from sight at eight-thirty, cloaking the world in darkness. From where he was parked Ute could see the old man’s house around the corner, a one story Mediterranean with stucco walls and ceramic tile ceilings, as out of place in central Ohio as it was being owned by a British man.

  Pulling gloves on, Ute grabbed one item in each hand, exited his car and crossed over the street, remaining in the shadows as he stepped through the intersection and up the driveway of the house. His head swiveled from side to side as he went, checking for any signs of life in the neighborhood. With the exception of a few lights on several hundred yards away, the street was deserted, void of any late night joggers, no young couples taking a dog for a stroll.

  The wide concrete driveway wrapped around the side of the house, feeding into a two-car garage. Beside it was an outdoor patio, framed by floor-to-ceiling screens, a rocking swing and bevy of deck furniture visible within.

  Free from having to worry about any elaborate set up, or even an escape path, Ute walked up to the door on the patio and banged on it with the side of his fist, beating against the wood in a steady, persistent manner until a light went on inside. He knew from days of observation that there was no dog inside to start barking, no wife that would come to the door and ask who it was. There was just the old man, who would walk straight out, stepping right into a trap he had no idea was waiting for him.

  Once the light went on, Ute stepped to the side and waited, his body hidden from sight, the shadows swallowing him up as he crouched next to the garage door. Muffled movements could be heard coming from inside, the sound of a lock turning, of the door wrenching open.

  “Yes? Is someone there?” the old man asked, his thick cockney accent revolting to Ute’s ears. Still he waited until his prey stepped outside, a profile visible in the porch light behind him.

  Ute waited until the old man was about a foot outside the door before slicing a knife hand chop across his throat, bending him at the waist, his hands clawing for air, breaths coming in ragged gasps. His momentum carried him forward several steps out onto the driveway, his internal functions shutting down as his body tried to force air back into his lungs.

  The same sadistic smile spread Ute’s face as he watched the man stagger, waiting until he was positioned where he wanted him. Only then did he raise the object in his right hand, a two foot piece of lead pipe, and smash it across his victim’s knee, folding it backwards in half.

  The slightest hint of a wail escaped from the man before he fell unconscious, the pain receptors in his brain so overwhelmed they short-circuited, sending everything straight to black. Unable to control his fall, the old man twisted into a heap on the ground, his leg twisted at a grotesque angle.

  Ute waited for him to hit the concrete before switching out the lead pipe for the can of spray paint in his left hand and scrawling a quick message out just inches from the old man’s shattered knee. The moment he was done he stepped into the man’s house and crossed over into the living room, grabbing up a cell-phone from an end table beside a still playing television. He walked back out onto the driveway and dialed 911, hitting send and dropping it down on the old man’s chest.

  From there he returned to the shadows, down the driveway and across the street, tossing the pipe and the paint in the car and sliding in behind the wheel. He sat there for almost two full minutes before the overhead security light overlooking the man’s driveway kicked on, bathing the entire area in harsh fluorescent light.

  Only then did he start the car and swing up around the corner, driving slowly to admire his handiwork, the old man’s body framed just right in the middle of the drive. At the end of the street he risked turning around in a neighbor’s drive and made one more pass through before the sound of sirens in the distance precipitated his exit into the night, the vindictive smile in place the entire time.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It was the third hospital Shane had been to in the past two weeks, all about as different from each other as three entities serving the same general purpose could be. The Ohio Tech University Hospital was a teaching hospital through and through, the floor layout open, every nurse and doctor in the place followed around by a gaggle of aspiring young medical professionals. Columbus General was a working facility, manned by grim faced health providers that spent their days seeing things that most people never would, what none ever should.

  Capital City Care, the 3C as locals called it, where Shane now found himself sitting, was set apart from the other two in one key way. It was private. Funded through a trust fund set up decades before by a widowed billionaire, everything in the place was sparkling new and state of the art. The rumor was that half of the supplies found in other facilities around town were hand-me-down’s from 3C, which replaced all equipment every three years.

  While excessive, and even wasteful, such an adherence to innovation showed in everything they did. Every surface in the building sparkled, whether it be cast from marble or stainless steel, every employee wore a smile, every room was singular and private.

  None of that mattered a bit to Shane as he sat in an armchair beside Prescott’s bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the cuffs of his jeans, the laces on his sneakers. In the bed, Prescott sat with his left leg suspended in the air, a silver stirrup hanging from the ceiling, supporting it. The entire limb was wrapped from hip to toe in thick gauze, doubling its size and adding stability.

  Only two sounds filled the space as Shane sat thinking, the steady din of the heart rate monitor and the uneven push and pull of the breathing machine, rising and falling with each breath.

  A hundred thoughts filled Shane’s head as he stared at the ground, trying to make sense of everything that was happening. It was suspicious when a member of his team was almost blown up on the day he gave his opening statement, but the fact that a second member was now in the hospital, an old man that may never walk unassisted again, was too much to overlook. The fact that it appeared to be an attempt to recreate the injury they were now litigating made it all the more alarming.

  A menagerie of emotions floated to the surface as Shane sat and tried to make sense of it. Anger at the senselessness of attacking a gentle old man, guilt at getting him i
nvolved in the first place.

  “It’s not your fault you know.”

  The voice sounded close, but very far away, like the person saying it was on the other side of a wall, the sound muffled. Shane’s head snapped up to see Prescott’s eyes flutter open, his face turned to look at Shane.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Shane jumped to his feet and pushed close to the side of the bed, starting to reach out and take his friend’s hand, but thinking better of it and pulling back. “Hey, how you feeling?”

  Prescott forced his eyebrows up a bit and rolled his eyes, the faintest trace of a smile on his face. “Not the first Sunday morning I’ve woken up in a world of pain.”

  The comment brought a smile to Shane’s face. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

  “No, it’s true I assure you,” Prescott said, “but at least those times the blokes had the decency to get me good and liquored up first.”

  Another chuckle slid from Shane before he could stop it, an immediate feeling of guilt riding in right after.

  “How bad?” Prescott asked.

  “Pretty bad,” Shane said. “You’ve got a broken leg, but luckily the blow came in above your knee, no structural damage at all. The bone gave way before it could tear anything in the knee.”

  “Hmm,” Prescott said, nodding his head. “I always told my mum that drinking milk was a load of bollocks.”

  Shane nodded his head, unable to force another smile at his friend’s attempt for levity.

  “Professor, I am so, so sorry, for all of this.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Shane. You had no way of knowing, no reason to believe that any of us were going to be in danger. You don’t even know that’s what all this is about.”

  “I...” Shane said, extending a hand from his side, a blank expression on his face. “How can you say that? Heath’s truck blows up just days before you, the nicest man I’ve ever met in my life, get attacked on your driveway?”

  “You need to meet more people.”

  Shane stopped, an involuntary half smile crossing his lips.

  “Shane, every day in this country thousands of cases are litigated, the vast majority of which never see anything resembling what’s happening here.”

  “I know,” Shane said, shaking his head from side to side, a bitter look on his face. “And I drug you all into it with me.”

  “But most of those cases aren’t as important as what you’re doing here either Shane.”

  “What am I doing?” Shane asked, forcing himself to keep his voice low, to match the slow and methodical tone of Prescott, to remind himself that the old man was on morphine and in a tremendous amount of pain. “Besides getting a lot of my friends hurt, what am I doing here?”

  “What you’ve always been doing,” Prescott said. “You are protecting your friends. At first, that was just Tyler. Now it has grown to encompass Heath and myself.”

  Shane continued to shake his head, staring at the patch of plain white wall across from him. “I can’t keep going. Not like this, not knowing that people are getting hurt because of me.”

  “But you must,” Prescott said, his voice clear, his tone non-negotiable. “Otherwise, everything you’ve done, everything we’ve all been through, is for naught. Then Shane, only then, would any of this be your fault.”

  The small squeak of tennis shoes on tile spun Shane around, a diminutive nurse with dark hair and eyes standing in the doorway, a smile on her face. “Sorry to interrupt, but now that Mr. Prescott’s awake the doctor would like to speak with him.”

  Shane’s mouth dropped open as he attempted to respond, but Prescott beat him to it, his accent a touch thicker for emphasis.

  “That’s alright dear, Mr. Laszlo here was just leaving. He has quite a lot of work ahead of him today, don’t you Shane?”

  Shane turned back to regard his friend, who pressed his lips together and nodded. Without thinking, Shane reached down and took up Prescott’s hand, wrapping it in both of his.

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  “I know,” Prescott said, nodding as Shane released his hand and departed.

  Another swirl of thoughts spun to Shane’s mind as he stepped outside, all of them interrupted as The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly erupted on his hip. He pulled the phone out and looked down at it, an unknown area code appearing on the caller ID.

  “Shane Laszlo.”

  “Mr. Laszlo, this is Connor Reed. Sorry to call you on a Sunday but we were wondering if you might be willing to revisit the idea of a settlement. Are you busy? Could we perhaps meet later today?”

  Shane pulled the phone away from his face and stared down at, incredulity and realization spreading across his face. He turned and stared back at the 3C behind him, thought about Prescott in his bed, of Heath in his across town. The plastic casing of the phone groaned as he squeezed it tight in his hand, pressing it back against his ear. A hundred responses sprang to mind, but he held them in, careful not to overplay his position.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Reed, but we’re not interested in a settlement.”

  “Mr. Laszlo, I would urge you not to be hasty and consider our proposition, for the good of your client.”

  Shane turned away from the hospital, hatred burning on his face. Every part of him knew he should keep his mouth shut, but something deep within just wouldn’t let it happen.

  “Mr. Reed, the reason I refuse to even listen to your offer for a settlement is because you guys made this about a lot more than just my client.”

  Several seconds of silence passed, Reed’s breathing the only thing to let Shane know he was still there.

  “So you’re saying you don’t want to even listen to our offer?”

  “I’m saying take your blood money and shove it up your ass.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The scent of caramelized sugar and ripened bananas hung in a heavy cloud over the table, a transparent veil that filled the senses, so thick it almost needed to be brushed back by hand. Shane was never one for the spectacle of tableside flambé, but the payoff of Bananas Foster always made it worth the effort, tonight being no exception.

  Across from him Christine sat looking down at her plate, a wedge of banana speared on the end of her fork, a look of concentration on her face as she used the fruit to sop up melted ice cream and caramel. When she amassed just the bite she wanted, she lifted it to her mouth and used her lips to pull it away, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face.

  As she chewed, her face raised to meet his, eyes closed, jaw working at the tasty morsel in her mouth. Once it was chewed and swallowed she opened her eyes, head propped up on a wrist and stared over at him.

  “Alright, out with it.”

  “Enjoy your dessert?” Shane asked, trying in vain to keep his amusement from showing.

  “Immensely. Now, out with it.”

  Shane lifted his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat, turned his head towards the television screen above the bar, an NBA playoff game on it. “What makes you think I want anything?”

  “Three things,” Christine said, sliding the wrist out from beneath her chin and holding three fingers up for him to see. “First, bone-in rib eyes and Bananas Foster. Come on, you know that’s my kryptonite. For you to be bringing out the big guns means you must want something major.

  “Two, this place,” she said, waving a hand around the small restaurant, made entirely from wood, holding no more than ten booths and a handful of tables. “It’s a great gem, I’ll give you that, but it feels a bit like hiding out.

  “Third, and most important, every time that door opens you either turn and stare or pretend to check the game, which I’m guessing is just a front to use the glass behind the bar to see who’s coming and going.”

  The faint smile remained on Shane’s face, his head turning as an older couple stepped outside. He opened his mouth to respond, to pick apart her argument one at a time, but the truth was there was nothing he could say to refute her. Just as
she had done for the better part of a decade, she had nailed him while appearing to not even be trying.

  “I need a favor,” Shane said, watching Christine’s face for any sign of a reaction.

  “Since when do you need to butter me up or hide out to ask me for a favor?” Christine asked, the wrist back beneath her chin, the aroma of burnt caramel still in the air.

  “It’s not that kind of favor,” Shane said, resting his forearms on the table and leaning in close. “I need you to go away for a while.”

  The statement raised Christine’s eyebrows a half inch, but otherwise she gave no reaction at all. “Are we planning another outing? Been a long time since we hit the road together.”

  “Not we, you,” Shane said, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I have to be here to finish the trial.”

  Christine pursed her lips, scrutinizing her friend, trying to figure out what Shane wasn’t telling her. She held the pose for the better part of a minute before asking whatever it was she was trying to work out in her head.

  “Why just me? And where do you think I should go?”

  “Anywhere,” Shane said. “Go find a warm beach somewhere, put your toes in the sand, find a cabana boy to rub oil on you.”

  “You know I don’t use tanning oil.”

  “So find a cabana boy and rub oil on him,” Shane said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “I don’t care. Just go somewhere safe, somewhere with lots of people around, please.”

  Christine maintained her pose for several moments, letting the words hang in the air, her gaze fixed on him. She raised her chin from her wrist and folded her arms in front of her, matching Shane’s pose.

  “You ever gone on a trip by yourself? It sucks. Not what I would call a vacation.”

  “Okay, so you go now, I’ll join you when I can,” Shane offered.