Traveler

by David Yates

  Braden regained his feet and sped to where the man was lying. He checked for a pulse on the unconscious guard. It was there, but it wasn't very strong. Braden returned to the 14th floor landing and retrieved his knife from the neck of his first adversary. He wiped the blood on the man's jacket and resumed his course down the stairs. As he passed the second man, he saw a trickle of blood running from the left ear of the fallen man.

  He met no one else in the stairwell, and stopped a half-floor above the 11th-floor landing. The door leading to the 11th-floor condos was closed. There was a small square window set into the top half of the varnished wooden door. The number “11” was tastefully painted in black above the little window.

  Braden plastered himself against the wall and eased down the last half-flight of stairs. He took a quick peek through the window when he reached the door. There were two more guards standing at the door, their backs to him. Braden moved to one side of the window and peeked again. He could see two more men next to the elevator doors a few feet away.

  He moved back and took a longer look through the door. He could see all the way to the end of the corridor. There were doors at regular intervals along the hallway. He couldn't see the numbers on the doors from this angle, but he didn't have to. The corridor ended at a large window. To either side of that window were doors leading to different dwellings. There were four men standing in front of the right-hand door. Braden knew without seeing that the number on this door was 1107.

  He shrank back from the door with his back against the wall, considering his options. He could go through the door and have to fight his way through eight men. Or, he could travel into the apartment and take his chances there.

  If he went through the door into the corridor, he would have the element of surprise on his side. He was confident that he could take out the eight men before they could get him; they were probably as complacent as their dead comrades upstairs had been. But the gunshots would alert the people inside 1107, and they would be ready for him.

  On the other hand, if he traveled into the condo, he would still have the element of surprise, but he would be going into a completely unknown situation. He had no idea about the layout of the condo, how many people were in there, what type of weapons they carried. He also didn't know Anson's specific location within the condo.

  He could lock the front door as soon as he got inside, blocking entry to the eight men in the corridor, but he knew this would only be temporary. They would get inside, and then he would have eight more men to face. Of course, if things got too hot he could always travel out of the condo. But he quickly rejected that idea. It had been a hard job locating Anson, and if he left with the job unfinished, Anson would disappear again and they would be back at Square One. No, he had to see this through right here, one way or another.

  The thing that finally decided his course of action was the simple fact that he wanted to get as close to Anson as possible before he or his men had any idea that Braden was in the area. He sheathed his knife and drew his guns. He drew in a deep breath and traveled to whatever fate awaited him behind Door Number 1107.

  Things actually happened very rapidly over the course of the next few minutes, but to Braden was zoned in and in full combat mode) time seemed to pass in super slo-mo, almost like the frame advance on a DVD player or a VCR.

  When he appeared in the condo, he took in everything at a glance. The glance only took perhaps two seconds, but the slo-mo frame advance with which Braden's eyes were recording everything made it feel like he stood there for about a year assessing the situation. He saw two men just inside the front door; there were five more men sitting at a small bar separating the kitchen from the dining room area. Closest to him were four more guards sitting on sofas and chairs in the living area. As the first second ended and the next second began, another man strolled into the room through a doorway, probably a bedroom. Braden saw Anson sitting in a recliner about eight feet away. His feet were propped on the footstool. He was wearing dress shirt and slacks, red tie pulled loose around his neck, no jacket, no shoes, and black silk socks. His legs were crossed at the ankles. He was reading a newspaper. Braden saw it was the Wall Street Journal.

  Just about the time the men in the room realized that there was a new person in their midst, Braden took two leaping steps to the recliner and knelt beside it, placing the recliner (and their boss) between the twelve men and himself. He leveled one of his guns in the general direction of the guards; the other one was pressing against Anson's temple. Several of Anson's men were in the act of reaching for weapons, but Braden had been so quick that none of them had even had a chance to draw yet.

  "Everyone freeze it right there!” exclaimed Braden. “Nobody draws! The first weapon I see, I put a bullet in his head!"

  Nobody moved. Hands froze under jackets and behind backs. Anson was sitting stiffly in the recliner, the Wall Street Journal dropped and forgotten on his lap.

  Braden pointed the gun in his left hand at one of the men by the door. “You, lock that door."

  The man turned and rotated the lock on the doorknob. He turned back to face Braden.

  "The dead bolt, too, stupid,” said Braden.

  The man flushed, obviously angered at being talked to in this manner by someone who he considered to be a young, impetuous brat. He opened his mouth to say something along those very lines, and then he saw the reflection of his own death in Braden's ice-blue eyes. He closed his mouth and locked the dead bolt.

  "I want to see everybody's hands,” announced Braden to the room at large. Twelve pairs of hands went up in the air. Braden pointed his left-hand gun at the nearest man to him. This gentleman hadn't even had time to get out of the deep armchair he was seated in. “Stand up,” Braden ordered.

  The man slowly stood, with some difficulty. He appeared to be maybe 70 pounds overweight. His belly swung like a pendulum before him as he stood. The fact that he had his hands in the air at the time made his task even more difficult.

  "Use your thumb and forefinger to remove your weapon and drop it in the chair,” Braden said.

  The man did as he was ordered. Braden nodded his head toward an open doorway and asked, “What's in there?"

  "Bedroom,” the man answered.

  "Go and stand by the door. Keep your hands up.” The man walked to the door and stood with his hands in the air.

  "Now, one at a time, everyone is going to do the same thing. Walk over to the chair, remove your weapon with two fingers, and drop it. Then you're all going to stand next to your buddy over there by the bedroom door. You first,” Braden finished, pointing his gun at another guard.

  One by one, the men dropped their weapons in the chair and moved to the bedroom door. When they were all standing in a rough group, hands raised, Braden ordered them into the bedroom. They disappeared through the doorway. “Last man through, close the door,” Braden said.

  When the bedroom door clicked shut, Braden turned his attention to Anson. “So, we meet at last,” Braden said.

  Anson said nothing. He was still sitting ramrod stiff in the chair, the muzzle of Braden's pistol cutting a circular groove into the skin of his temple. For all Braden knew, rigor mortis had settled in.

  Braden stood and holstered the gun in his left hand. He walked to a chair opposite Anson and sat down. He let his other gun rest on the arm of the chair. “I think it's time we had a serious talk,” Braden said.

  Anson's body relaxed by degrees. He glared at Braden but still remained silent. Braden could see a mixture of anticipation and murderous hate in Anson's eyes.

  "For starters,” Braden began, “why do you hate me so much? I've never done anything to you."

  Anson's only answer was more silence and that homicidal glare.

  "Okay, we'll skip the first question. It's not that important anyway. My second question is, why do you hate Sam enough to want to kill her?"

  No response from Anson.

  Braden nodded. “I guess I can't blame you for not answering tha
t one. I'd feel like a shit head, too, if I was as heartless and soulless as to want to kill my own daughter."

  That one struck home, and Braden was finally rewarded with a reaction from Anson. A line appeared at his jaw and slowly moved upward to his hairline, turning his face fire-engine red. Braden had never seen anything quite like it.

  "You impudent little bug,” Anson snarled. His face was twisted into a grimace of hate and anger. “Don't presume to tell me how to conduct my business."

  Braden continued. “You know what she said about you? She said you were not her father. She said she didn't know you as you are now. She said ‘he has a hole where his heart should be'. Her words, not mine. How does that feel?"

  "That is none of your concern. I'll deal with my daughter when the time comes,” Anson growled. Although neither of them knew it at the time, it would be the last words he would speak on this side of the river Styx.

  "We're in love, you know,” Braden said confidentially. He let his eyelids drop to half-mast, and he said coyly, “She's great in bed, too."

  The new line turned Anson's face from fire-engine red to beet-red. It was a wondrous thing to behold. Braden kept the pressure on. He leaned forward in the chair.

  "The things she does to me defies description. I'm not the kind to kiss and tell, but...” Braden dropped Anson a sly wink, “we're both men of the world. I think you've got an idea of what I'm talking about."

  Now Anson's face was turning an alarming plum shade. His eyes slowly widened. He appeared to be trying to inhale but was unable to. He groped in his shirt pocket and fumbled out a pill bottle. He scrabbled at the lid with a claw hand, leaning farther and farther to his right. He finally succeeded in ripping the lid from the bottle. He toppled to his right, coming to rest against the arm of the recliner. His eyes were open, pupils fixed and dilated. The bottle tumbled from his hand, spilling small white pills everywhere.

  Braden sat in mild shock, looking at Anson. He slowly rose from the chair. He holstered his weapon and reached down to Anson's neck. No pulse. Well what do you know? Braden thought. His ticker must have thrown a rod.

  Someone outside the front door tried the knob and found it locked. They rapped on the door. Braden straightened and turned his head to the door.

  "Sammy, open up!” a muffled voice called out from the other side of the door. There was a pause, then another rap, more sharply this time. “Come on, Sammy, I gotta take a leak!"

  Time to blow this joint, Braden thought, and saw movement in the kitchen from the corner of his eye. In one fluid motion he turned his head, drew and fired. In the split second before his finger squeezed the trigger, he saw a man standing up on the other side of the bar, aiming a pistol at him. He had apparently been hiding behind the bar the entire time.

  Braden's bullet took the man above the left eye. He was on his way back to Kansas City before his would-be assailant hit the ground.

  Braden related the events at Anson's condo to the others as they sat around the dining table in the hotel suite. Archer was nodding when Braden told them how Anson had died.

  "Yeah, sounds like it was his heart, all right,” Archer agreed. “The medication was probably nitro."

  Braden looked closely at Sam. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

  Sam looked Braden directly in the eyes. “Yes, I'm fine,” she replied. “I'm comfortable with the knowledge that my real father was dead years ago. That is, if he ever existed at all."

  Braden nodded and looked down at the table. Sam asked him, “Are you all right?"

  Braden looked up and favored her with a weary smile. “Yes, I'm just tired."

  Sam said, “Well, you know it wears you out when you travel..."

  Braden was shaking his head. “No, I'm not talking about that. What I mean is, I'm tired of running away. I'm tired of moving from city to city, from state to state. I'm ready to get solid ground under my feet and grow some roots."

  "Well, I guess we can do that now,” Archer said. “After all, the only guy left that wanted us dead is now dead himself. It's over."

  Sam looked at Braden. “Is it really over?"

  Braden nodded slowly. “Yes, it's really over. Finally and for good."

  Manny said, “I hate to be a wet blanket, but what about Silas? All of those men were under his employ when Anson hired him. They are really Silas’ men, not Anson's."

  "Which is why we have little to fear from Silas or his men,” Braden said. “Silas is a mercenary, hiring out his little army to the highest bidder. He just lost his ride. The only thing he'll be worried about is where his next paycheck will be coming from."

  "You really think so?” Manny said dubiously.

  "Yes,” Braden answered. “That's what Anson was to him; a paycheck, nothing more. He had no personal connection to Anson. He wasn't coming after us over a personal vendetta. As far as we were concerned, it was all business. He was being paid to find us and kill us. Now he's no longer being paid to do that. He'll move on to the next job, and we'll never hear from him again."

  This rationalization seemed to satisfy Manny. His face relaxed. “So it really is over, then."

  "Yes, sir,” Braden said with a smile. “It's time to relax and enjoy the good life."

  "Speaking of that,” Archer chimed in, “what are we going to do now? Where are we going to go?"

  They looked around the table at each other. No one answered Archer's question right away. They thought about the limitless possibilities ahead. They were free of Anson and his cronies. They had nearly fifty million dollars in a Spanish bank, drawing serious interest. They had the means and the freedom to go where they pleased.

  Although they didn't talk about it, they all felt that some high-pressure valve deep inside had been released. They were more relaxed than they had ever been since they had been together. Inwardly they still mourned the loss of those who had fallen in the conflict; Joe Bemis, Gwen Wiley, Jimmy Hollingsworth. But their new found freedom had released the invisible, but still painful, bands which had been tightly restricting their hearts. This must be how longtime POW's feel when they're finally released from captivity, Braden thought.

  He looked around the table at the only friends he had in the world. The difference in their demeanors was at the same time subtle, yet obvious. The worry lines were gone, they seemed to breathe easier, and the smiles he was seeing were more relaxed and genuine.

  Braden finally broke the silence. He said, “I guess everything depends on whether or not we want to stay together."

  Sam wrapped her arm around Braden's and said immediately, “You're not getting rid of me. I'm sticking to you like Super Glue."

  Braden smiled and said, “I was hoping you would say that.” He turned to the other two. “What about you guys?"

  Archer's look was so comical that Braden couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. The Doc was looking at him with wide eyes. His mouth was open. The expression on his face said you're not gonna leave me here, are you? It was the same expression worn by untold multitudes of small children when their parents leave them at school for the first time.

  Incredibly, Archer said, “You're not gonna leave me here, are you?” They all burst out laughing. Archer's expression changed to one of embarrassed indigence. This only fueled their laughter. As tears rolled down his face, Braden thought Man, it feels so good to laugh.

  When their laughter had died down somewhat, Braden said, “Okay, I guess we're all in agreement that we're staying together. Any nominations on a destination?"

  "Anyplace warm,” Sam said without hesitation.

  "Yeah, I could get behind that,” Manny agreed.

  "I've heard good things about Hawaii,” Archer added. They all sat in silence for a moment.

  Braden said, “All right, let's see a show of hands. How many people for Hawaii?"

  Four hands went up in the air. “Hawaii it is,” Braden said. “Only, let's not leave right away. Let's just hang out here for a few days and relax. We've got a nice, comfortable suite
and I hear the barbecue in Kansas City is unbelievable."

  Eight days later, Sam and Braden were sitting on the patio at their Kansas City hotel, enjoying a warm, sunny day. They were each sipping on a pina colada, perhaps in preparation for Hawaii. They had made their flight and hotel reservations, and were scheduled to leave the next day.

  As they sat soaking up the sun, they were approached by a hotel employee. He was wearing a black vest and bowtie and spoke in a soft, respectful voice. “Excuse me, sir, but is your name Braden?"

  Braden turned his head and looked up. “Yes,” Braden replied.

  "I have a message for you from your roommate, Mr. Espinoza,” The young man said. “He says he needs to speak with you right away."

  Braden rose and pulled Sam out of her chair by the hand. “Thank you,” he said to the messenger, and walked back inside with Sam in tow.

  When they arrived back at the suite, Manny had a stressed look on his face. Archer was sitting at the dining room table, looking out the terrace window blankly. Braden's heart leaped into his throat. “What's wrong, Manny?” he asked as he fell into a chair.

  "I was packing everything up, getting ready to leave,” Manny said in a slightly shaky voice. Several tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I was just about to pack away my laptop when an email came in on this.” He held up Sam's PDA, which he had brought with them to Kansas City. He handed the PDA to Braden. “It's from Silas."

  Braden reached out and took the PDA with fingers that were suddenly stone cold. He almost dropped it, and then found the handle again. He lowered his eyes to the screen and read the message there.

  To Braden and his little band of crusaders:

  If you think you're troubles are over, think again. They've only just begun. I am going to make it my life's work to hunt you down. When I find you I am going to take your fingers off of your hands, one at a time and slowly. Then I will move on to your toes. I will cut off your ears and I will castrate you. I will pop your living eyes out of your head with my knife. I will continue to hurt you until you beg for death, but I will not kill you yet. I will take your little whore and turn her over to my men to use as their plaything. I will let my men use the cripple and the doctor for target practice while you slowly bleed to death. Rest assured that I will not give up until these things happen.