by Holly Hart
“Dude, I don’t know, man—it was a flash, and there was sort of a sound, but it wasn’t like movie gunfire, and—”
Starkey stops the video. “It goes on for a while—more of the same. Nothing new yet.”
Stella drops to her knees, eyes wide as saucers. I crouch down next to her. “Hey. Come on—got to stay calm. This might not be what it looks like.”
She’s still staring at the screen. Not sure I’m getting through.
“Starkey! Get her to the airport. First flight out—you get on it. Then keep going. As far as you can.”
Stella scrambles to her feet, away from Starkey. “No! No—I can’t!”
Goddammit! Knew I should’ve replaced him—fucking Starkey! I dig deep for that seed of patience. Scaring her worse won’t help. “Listen, Starkey won’t hurt you. He can sit in coach, if you want. Nowhere near you. You’ll be—”
“It’s not that.” Her words come out broken, barely a croak. “This was me. I did this.” She keeps backing away. “I wrote it all down, and my purse—all my notes—”
I take her by the shoulders, steadying her before she can trip herself up. “You didn’t.”
“You don’t—”
“No—listen.” I give her a little shake. Time’s running out. No room for panic. “It’s Magnus. He’s figured out I’m coming for him, and he’s tying up loose ends. Whatever you know, whatever you wrote, this was not you. Understood?”
Her gaze flickers between me, Starkey, and the screen. She shakes her head.
“I’ll explain it all soon. You’ll see for yourself. But for now, you have to run. Starkey?”
“I’ll get the car.”
Stella clings to me, nails digging into my forearms. “You’re not coming?”
“There’s something else I have to do. After that....” It hurts to lie. But she needs to hear it. “I’ll be right behind you. Stay calm, listen to Starkey, and everything’ll be fine.”
“Everything’ll be fine....”
I shake her again. “Hey! Get a grip. You can freak out later, okay?”
She blinks, recognition dawning, like she’s waking up from a dream. “Right. Right, I’m... Got it.”
Starkey reappears in the doorway, jacket over his arm. “Sorry—car’s ready. I’m driving.”
I squeeze Stella’s shoulders one last time. “Go.”
She can’t seem to let go. Starkey pulls her away as gently as possible, but one of her nails nicks my wrist. I catch myself hoping it’ll scar. Something to remember her by.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Stella
“Put this on.” Starkey thrusts his jacket into my arms. It’s so heavy I almost drop it.
“What—?”
“Body armor. Zip up all the way and flip the collar over your face. Duck your head when we’re in the open.”
Starkey pushes through the doors ahead of me, keeping himself between me and the street as he rushes me to the car. Feels like I’m getting arrested, the way he bundles me into the back seat, one hand on my head. He buckles me in like a child, and I don’t even protest.
“I didn’t get my passport, my ID, anything....”
He pats his breast pocket. “All here. Sit tight.” He slams the door. Moments later, I’m flattened to the seat as we accelerate far too fast.
It occurs to me that this could be my last glimpse of New York, of America, and it’s going by in a flash. The lights blur together; the buildings zip by. Never got a chance to say goodbye, not even to Jack, not really. My last words to him were “got it”—not “be careful,” not “I love you”—not even an apology. Fucking “Got it.”
Starkey swerves hard. We bounce up on the median and come down with a jolt. The seat belt digs into my hip, right where it aches from the mugging.
“Slow down! We’ll get pulled over!”
“We won’t.” His voice is tight. “Keep your head down.”
My head? Is someone after us? I twist around in my seat, but there’s nothing to see but the glare of headlights, swiftly receding. I slide down as far as I can, anyway. Just in case.
I feel like I’m in The Fast and the Furious, a captive passenger flying through the night at breakneck speed. I’m clutching the seat all the way, certain Starkey’s going to lose control and send us careening off the road. I picture us crawling out of the ditch, headlights glaring in our faces, while behind us...behind us...some faceless assassin, creeping out of the weeds, like he knew we’d be there. Like in the movies, where they throw nails in the road, and then—
My head’s spinning. Heart’s pounding. Breathing too fast.
Freak out later.
Later. Right. This is just a precaution: a surreal wild ride I’ll look back on later, and feel like it happened to someone else. Nothing will happen—how can it? We’re almost there. Almost there. I can see the lights of the airport. Planes on the tarmac.
Everything’ll be fine.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jack
Twenty-two hundred hours: I pull up at One Police Plaza. This is it. World’s end. Hope Stella got out in time.
I roll down my window and close my eyes, breathing in the city. Smells of spilled coffee and sewer steam, mostly. My last breaths as a free man, and I’m sniffing New York’s ass. Yeah. Sounds about right.
She’s probably halfway to the airport by now. Starkey’ll get her home, or wherever she wants to go. The Cayman Islands, or New Zealand. Someplace where it’s summer. She’ll be pissed, at first, when I don’t show up, but when she finds out what I’ve done....
Maybe she’ll hold onto a few good memories: running in the park; lazy mornings in bed; making fun of Starkey, that time.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Erik. I pick up—why not? Nothing’s stopping this train.
“Yeah?”
“There’s a sniper. He’s going to shoot her.”
I sit up so fast my knee smacks the steering wheel. “What? When?”
“Magnus found her notes. She, uh—she knew about Nagler’s kid. Planned to use him as leverage, to get the real dirt. Blakemoor—we got so much to lose, and she knew; she had—”
“Fuck Blakemoor—where’s the sniper?”
“He’s got—he’s a worm. Nagler. Hundred percent spineless...worm. He’d have spilled his guts, ruined—ruined....” Shit—he’s drunk. Off his face.
“Erik! The sniper! Where’s it happening?”
“Dunno...didn’t say. Told me to sit here and wait, so I’m waiting.” He laughs. “Not even sure I should be warning you. Probably better—think your little crush goes both ways? ‘Cause I...’cause I happen to know—she—”
“Jesus Christ!” Drunken moron! I toss the phone on the seat and peel out. Screw where the sniper is: I know where she is. Justice can wait one more day.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Stella
It’s like stepping on a twig—just a snap, out of nowhere, and Starkey misses a step. I open my mouth to say something, and the wind’s knocked out of me as he slams me against the wall. A sick sense of déjà vu washes over me. This time, I’m fighting like hell. This time—
“Stop. Sniper.”
Everything comes to a halt. I can’t feel my own heart. Starkey’s bleeding, nickel-sized drops pattering to the ground, too fast, too heavy.
“You’re—”
“Ssh. Get inside. Stay away from the windows.” He pushes my passport into my hand, and a wallet that isn’t mine. “Everything you need. Go. Don’t look back.”
“What about you? Aren’t you—”
“Can’t get on a plane like this.” He’s crowding me to the door, shielding me with his body. “Walk fast, once you’re inside. Buy your ticket and blend with the crowd. Don’t stand alone. Don’t be a target.” He winces and narrows his eyes. “And when you land, disappear. Don’t wait for Jack. If you see him, run the other way.”
“What? Why—?”
His face contorts. “He’s a war criminal. He’d do anything to avoid
prosecution. Anything.” Starkey gives me a push. “Now, go!”
He’s...what? “But—”
“Go!” He shoves me harder. I wobble, going over on my ankle, and nearly tumble into the terminal. By the time I’ve righted myself, Starkey’s gone. And I’m neatly framed between the glass doors. I can worry about his parting words later. Right now, I’m walking. Or hobbling. But quickly. Double-time.
I’m halfway to the ticket counter when I spot her: Katrina. She’s looking the other way, but I’d know that profile anywhere, that severe blonde bun. She’s doing a slow sweep, scanning the ticket lines. Five seconds, maybe ten, we’ll lock eyes. I hold my breath. Running would bring her down on me in an instant. I could scream, but the nearest guard is by the bathrooms, halfway down the terminal.
Hide—I need to hide. A row of chairs looks promising, but there’s space underneath. She’d spot me kneeling. The bathroom? No—I’d never get past her. A trolley piled high with suitcases: that’ll have to do.
I slip behind the trolley, careful not to move too fast, and crouch low. This works. I close my eyes and inhale, mind racing. She probably knows I’m here. Sooner or later, she’ll come looking, and when she does, I need to be somewhere else. Far away.
Laughter rings out, right behind me. I whirl, nearly jostling the suitcases. There’s a little kid pointing at me, chortling out loud. “Mommy! That lady has to pee!”
Oh, my God—really?
Her mother looks over. “No, honey—I think she has a sore foot.” She shrugs, apologetic. “Sorry, sweetheart!” So loud—they’re so loud. Katrina’s got to be looking. She’ll guess; she’ll come over, and...shoot me in the middle of the airport?
No, not that. She’ll force me outside, like Starkey did at the party—and then I’ll be shot. By the sniper, while she walks away.
There are three cabs at the taxi stand, lit up and waiting.
Now or never.
I bolt for the exit, head ducked low.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jack
She’s not here. Starkey, either. There’s blood—a great, messy pool of it, and a trail leading to the curb. No cops, though. Nobody milling around. So they’re alive—or they were when they left. Which couldn’t have been long ago. Blood’s still fresh, and Starkey hasn’t called.
All I have to do is wait. He’ll get her to safety and check in. Five minutes, ten—unless he can’t.
There’s a lot of blood. He could’ve gone off the road. Pulled over and passed out. Or it’s her blood.
I close my eyes, just for a second. Can’t play what-if, not now. All that matters is where they went. Not home: Starkey’s not stupid. Not LaGuardia, either. Trailing blood through an airport is a quick way to get detained. That leaves Port Authority—a way out, anonymous, not far from here. Either that or a hospital.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates. “Go ahead.”
“We got separated at the airport. Sniper on scene.” Starkey’s breathing is heavy, labored. The blood must be his. “She made it inside, but I got winged. Had to get out.”
Okay. Okay—so she’s safe. Sleeping in first class, with any luck. “Where are you now?”
“Hospital. Cops are on their way—I’ll be a while.”
Of course. They’d have reported the gunshot wound. Doesn’t matter. It’s all coming out, anyway. “Take it easy. You did good.”
“Wait!” He grunts, like he’s trying to sit up. “You’re going to let her go, right?”
What? “Let her go?”
“She won’t come back. She’ll leave you alone. There’s no reason—she’s not a loose end.”
Not a loose end? “Wait—you think this was me?”
There’s a long silence on the other end. I’m starting to think Starkey’s passed out, when he clears his throat. “I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth.” Fabric crinkles, and he groans. “Hope it wasn’t.”
The line goes dead. I sit down heavily on the curb. That’s what he thinks of me? After all these years? Am I that big an asshole?
A taxi pulls up behind my car, honking loudly. I flip him the bird, but it’s time to go. Nothing left for me here. I slide behind the wheel and power on my phone. It’s not really my business, but I’m curious: the name of the airline should be on my credit card account. I can match it up with outgoing flights, guess at which one she took. Picture her there, in the hard times to come.
No pending charges.
The cabbie honks again, and I lay on my own horn.
No pending charges?
She didn’t take her purse. Couldn’t have paid for herself. So if she didn’t book a ticket....
A volley of honking assaults my ears.
“All right! Fuck! I’m going!” I pull out, already speed-dialing the bank. Got to be a delay in the system. An error. Something not working the way it should. Stella got out—she must have. If she didn’t....
She did.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Stella
It’s still the same doorman, back at my place. He lets me in, promising to drop by a new key first thing. I manage a grateful nod, but I’ll be out of here at dawn. This place isn’t safe past tonight.
Everything looks smaller than it did. And it’s cold in here, the profound chill of an abandoned home. No hint of warmth caught in the carpet, the curtains, the quilt folded at the foot of the bed. There’s a staleness to the air, and dust—a lot of dust. I cough and rub my eyes.
It’s just a place to crash. Tomorrow, I’ll think about where to go...and how to get there. I could bus it up to Canada, lose myself in the prairies. Or farther north—Greenland, maybe. Iceland. Somewhere he won’t think to look. Somewhere to disappear.
I crack the curtains. A sliver of light angles in from the street. It’ll have to be enough: has to look like no one’s home. He might swing by, once he knows I’m not dead.
There’s still a nightie folded under my pillow, a summer one, too thin by far. I crawl under the covers in my clothes, burrow my head into the pillow, and close my eyes. The bed I slept in for years feels too soft, unfamiliar. No longer my own. I wriggle uncomfortably, missing Jack’s warmth.
Jack. Why bother putting me back together, if he meant to have me shot? Or was I the sacrifice the whole time? These last three weeks, sitting with me, cooking for me, helping me hop around the penthouse—was that guilt? An apology for what he was about to do?
I’m never going to sleep. I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. The paint’s cracked some more in my absence. Or maybe it was always like that. Reminds me of doilies...dried mud...spiderwebs....
I sit up with a gasp, hazy and disoriented. Did I fall asleep?
Somebody’s here, sharing my air. I pull the covers to my chin like a kid hiding from the boogeyman. The darkness feels occupied. Crowded, even. I can’t hear anything, see anyone, but there’s a prickling at the back of my neck, a lump in my throat.
I cast about for anything that bludgeons or crushes or stabs. There’s a lamp by the window, heavy and lethal, and tragically out of reach. Beating him to death with a slipper seems farfetched. On the nightstand, I spot a snowglobe: Christmas in Vienna. I reach for it, slow and easy, flinching at the faint slosh of water.
“Hello?”
It’s him. Jack.
I press my back to the wall, clutching my weapon.
“Look, whatever Starkey told you, I swear there’s no danger. Not from me.”
The bathroom door creaks. Boots clunk on tile. I hear the scrape and crinkle of the shower curtain, the linen closet opening and closing. I’m shivering—fuck. Breathe.
“He’s okay, in case you were wondering. Stitched up and on his way home.” Jack’s closing in. I can actually see him coming, a subtle shift in the light as his mass blocks the crack in the door. “I guess he might’ve said something to you. Warned you, maybe.”
I grip the snow globe so tight the base grooves my fingers.
Jack opens the door. “Oh, there you—”
I hurl the snow globe with all my might. It bounces off his shoulder, hits the doorframe, and explodes in a spray of glitter and glass. Jack dusts off his arm. He’s smiling, actually smiling, like any of this is funny.
“I’m all...wet. And sparkly.”
“Stay back. Please.”
Jack glances toward the window. The streetlights flash orange in his eyes. “Mind if I sit down?”
Suppose it might be better if he wasn’t towering over me. I nod, and he settles himself on the edge of the bed.
“How did you find me?”
“Checked everywhere else. Thought you’d have caught a bus, got the hell out of Dodge.”
“No money.”
He sighs. “Guess you ditched my credit card.”
I watch him warily. He’s hunched over, shoulders slumped. His hand’s bleeding, where the glass must have nicked him.
“Why aren’t you on a plane?” There’s a hollow note to his voice. Defeated.
“Katrina was there. Guarding the ticket counter.”
Jack looks up, startled. “Katrina? Her, too?” Outside, tires screech. Someone swears.
“Fuck. Fuck. We need to get out of here. Now.” He looks around. “Where’s your jacket? The one Starkey gave you?”
“Hall closet—what’s happening?”
“No time—come on.” He’s calm, but there’s an urgency to his voice that has me trailing after him in spite of myself, letting him help me into my jacket. He zips it to the chin and straightens the collar. “Can you run, if need be?”
I shake my head.
“All right. We’ll—”
Glass shatters in the bedroom. I feel a breeze on my cheek—the window! Why—?
Jack hurtles down the hall and slams the door. An instant later, thick smoke’s rolling under the door, billowing up in thick plumes. I turn to run, but Jack catches me by the elbow.
