by Tim Stevens
Pope watched the road as the flow continued. Vehicles were sweeping by mostly singly now, many of them delivery trucks like this one. There were no other cars in the service station forecourt. Pope had seen a clerk seated behind a counter inside the shop.
Pope looked at the digital display on the pump. The amount of fuel delivered was advancing in drips.
‘That’s enough,’ he said to Joel. The driver withdrew the nozzle, taking his time, and replaced the cap.
Pope nodded and Joel began walking towards the building. Pope kept a few feet behind, Nina at his side, the violin clasped in front of her.
The shop was like a small supermarket, its brightly lit aisles stocked with foods, pharmaceuticals and household products. Behind the counter perched another college boy like the one at the first station Pope and Nina had stopped at. This one looked fresher, as though he’d started his shift recently after a night’s worth of sleep. He watched them with mild curiosity. Pope supposed they made an odd trio, and they’d certainly be remembered later. That didn’t matter.
Above the counter a closed-circuit television monitor was split into four screens, showing various areas of the forecourt, the interior of the shop and the three of them plus the clerk. Pope watched Joel on the monitor handing across a credit card. The resolution wasn’t great but he could see nothing in the man’s eyes to suggest he was signalling the clerk in any way.
Pope kept his hand around the butt of the Heckler & Koch in his jacket pocket.
The clerk tore off a receipt and handed it to Joel. Joel turned and muttered to Pope, ‘I have to use the john.’
‘No.’ Pope inclined his head towards the exit.
‘Jeez, man. I always do here. I’m busting.’
‘Too bad.’
Behind Joel the clerk was frowning a little. It was time to go.
As Pope stepped aside to let the truck driver go ahead of him he noticed something about the clerk’s frown. It was no longer directed at him. He looked at the boy’s face, followed his line of sight through the glass.
At the rim of the forecourt, at each of the two points designated Entry and Exit, a car had pulled up and parked, blocking the access to and from the road. As Pope watched, men emerged from each car, crouching.
Like street lights being turned on in sequence, a silent flashing red and white light appeared on the roof of each car.
Thirty-Four
Interstate 95, between Washington D.C and New York
Tuesday 21 May, 2.35 am
Nina couldn’t be sure of the sequence of events in the next few seconds. Each separate experience was like an individual card in a deck that had been rapidly shuffled.
Strobing lights washed through the windows and across the faces of Pope and the truck driver and the clerk.
The clerk shouted something incomprehensible.
The driver, Joel, shouted, terrifyingly close to her, He’s got a gun get down he’s kidnapped us.
Pope pulled, hard, on her arm, the way she had to pull hard on the old-fashioned toilet chain in her first home, and she felt herself dropping.
From her position on the lino floor, tiny and helpless, sprawled over her violin case she saw the looming shape of the clerk above the counter, something in his hands – a gun…
She heard the ch-chak of the gun’s slide action less than a second before it was drowned out by a crashing boom directly above her, one that made her clasp her hands over her ears to shut out the noise, both of the explosion and of her screams.
From where she was on the floor Nina could see the gap in the counter giving entry to the space behind it, and she watched the clerk slam back against the racks of cigarettes and liquor bottles on the wall behind him and drop onto his butt on the floor, where he sat propped, his legs splayed, one eye staring at her, the other missing along with half his head.
Her screams seemed to engulf her, becoming the whole of her, and although she blocked her ears and closed her eyes against them they penetrated through.
Something nagged at her, through the screaming and the horror, and she realised she had to pay attention to it.
Somebody was asking her something, over and over.
*
‘Please, don’t.’
Nina rolled over and brought her legs up so that she was hunched on her heels on the floor, over the violin case.
Three feet in front of her she could see the backs of Pope’s legs. Beyond him, at eye level with her, she saw the chubby truck driver, Joel. He was kneeling, facing Pope, but looking past him and at Nina. His cap had been dislodged sideways to reveal a sunburned, peeling bald pate above the ring of scrubby hair.
His hands were clasped and shaking in front of him.
‘Please,’ he whispered again. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t kill me.’
He was staring at her. Asking her not to kill him.
She shook her head. What did she mean? She hoped he understood.
Nina watched Pope extend his hand, and for an instant she thought he was reaching to help the man up.
The gun roared and bucked slightly in his hand again and Nina fell back, hands coming up around her ears once more.
*
A half hour passed, sluggishly, like the time spent waking up from an anaesthetic. Except it couldn’t have been a half hour; it was more, Nina realised later, like a few seconds.
She was still on the floor, the violin pressed to her, but she’d crawled back into the adjacent aisle to get away from the horrors on the floor where she’d been earlier. Pope stood six feet away, slightly crouched, staring out the windows.
‘Nina.’
He didn’t turn when he said it, and for a moment she though the voices had come back.
‘Nina.’ This time his head turned a fraction, and his voice was louder. ‘Stay down but come over here.’
She heard, but couldn’t process the words.
Pope stooped and backed over to her, reaching her in an instant. With his free hand he grabbed hers and dragged her back towards the window, forcing her to duckwalk to keep up.
When they reached the wall with the windows, rows of potato chips and candy bars arrayed in front of her face, he pulled her so that she stood. She felt him step behind her. One of his hands gripped her shoulder.
The gun barrel touched her ear.
*
She’d seen it countless times in movies, and had thought it must be one of the most terrifying experiences possible. But now, with the ring of the barrel an inch from the side of her head, radiating warmth and the smell of metal, she felt nothing. No fear. No numbness, even.
His voice murmured in her hair beside her ear.
‘I know this is horrible, but I swear to you, it’s a bluff. I’m not going to shoot you. I’m not going to let those men out there hurt you. There are four of them. They’re not police. They’re your father’s men. This is the only way to keep them at bay for the time being.’
His words were clear as ice, their meaning as well as their sound. She gave a tiny nod.
Through the glass, she could make out silhouettes around the two cars. Police cars, they looked like, with their cherry-top lights; except that they didn’t appear to have police markings. The silhouetted shapes – there might have been four, as Pope said; she couldn’t be sure – were hunched against the cars, again just as she’d seen in the movies. The siege posture, she thought of it as.
As she watched, the silhouettes shifted position, two of them detaching themselves from the car and advancing a little at a stoop. Both men carried guns, held low and in both hands.
Pope straightened further, pulled Nina closer. The men stopped, remained where they were.
Something didn’t make sense to her.
‘I had to kill those two,’ Pope said.
She nodded.
‘The clerk was going to shoot me. The truck driver would have made a run for it at some point and those men outside would have got in.’
He was telling her this, Nina knew, because he ne
eded her to trust him. This she understood.
But still, something about the situation was wrong. Something about the tactic he was using.
She felt him step crabwise to the left and allowed him to shuffle her along with him. They reached the counter. Nina kept her gaze on the forecourt, not wanting to look at the body of the clerk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Pope reach across and lift the handset of the landline phone perched in its base beside the till.
In the faint reflection in the glass, she saw him hold the phone high. He’d released her shoulder, but his right hand still touched the gun barrel to her head.
Across the forecourt one of the men straightened a little, then seemed to say something to his friend. The man called something across to the other tow shapes near the second car.
One of them was fumbling with something which she realised from the tiny blue light was a cell phone.
Two minutes passed. Nina became aware for the first time of faint, tinny music coming from a radio somewhere behind the counter.
She understood what was happening. The men outside were locating the phone number for the gas station.
The phone rang in Pope’s hand, shrill and startling. He hit the receive button and spoke immediately.
‘Back off and give us safe passage in one of your cars. If you advance any further or don’t comply with my instructions, I’ll kill the girl.’
Nina couldn’t make out the reply at the other end but she heard Pope interrupt: ‘No negotiation. You have two minutes. Leave the keys to both cars in the car in front of the exit and then all of you go over and sit in the other car.’
Another tiny burst of noise came through the receiver. Pope said, ‘Two minutes, starting now. Any longer and I shoot her.’
As he lowered the phone, Nina saw two sets of headlights sweep down the slip road leading towards the forecourt.
*
‘Time’s running out.’
The phone had rung again. Nina had watched the two new cars pull up outside the entrance and a woman emerge from one of them. One of the men had advanced toward her and from his gestures was clearly telling her to back off.
Nina strained her hearing, starting to become accustomed to the sound coming from the receiver. She made out a few words from the other end. Not with us… get rid of them… more time.
Two men had joined the woman from the cars. An urgent argument was developing.
Pope had lowered the phone again. In the glass his face was in shadows and Nina couldn’t read it.
She said, her voice stronger than she’d believed possible: ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Pope. ‘These new people seem to be different.’
‘Police?’
‘Perhaps.’ He sounded unconvinced.
The two remaining original men – my father’s men, Nina reminded herself – stayed out of the argument, keeping close to their car on the other side, watching Pope and Nina in the window. Nina wondered if Pope was considering making a move now that two of the men were otherwise occupied. But he kept still, his hand with the phone resting on her shoulder, and the gun barrel always gently touching her ear.
Pope’s two-minute ultimatum had long passed. The scene at the entrance was becoming more fraught. Both sides were squaring up, pushing against the space between them. Nina could hear voices raise din anger but couldn’t make out the words.
The woman held something up. Light glinted off it. A detective’s shield. So they were cops.
The two men took a step back, and then things happened fast.
The two men with the woman crouched and lifted their arms, guns levelled. The two original men aimed their weapons back.
The two remaining men began advancing across the forecourt toward the building.
Pope dropped the phone and put his forearm across Nina’s throat, lightly, behind the neck of the violin case. He drew her across him. The movement made her stagger slightly and her violin case sweep the rows of candy bars and chips in front of her below the windows, scattering them noisily to the floor.
The men, her father’s men, were halfway across the forecourt. Over at the cars the standoff continued.
Nina twisted her neck in discomfort. As she did so she glanced up at the CCTV monitor above the counter over to the left.
One of the split-screen images showed the back of the shop. A man was sidling down one of the aisles, gun arm extended.
Nina yelled, ‘Behind us.’
Thirty-Five
Interstate 95, between Washington D.C and New York
Tuesday 21 May, 2.05 am
Berg’s phone trilled on the dashboard. She put it on speaker.
They’d been driving for over an hour, the interstate appearing as vast and as empty as any road Purkiss had seen, despite the steady flow of cars. The signs said they were nearing Philadelphia.
Nakamura’s voice came across. ‘Just picked up a police report from Philly. Car smash here on 95 heading north, with one guy dead. The other driver left the scene. Get this. The cops say the dead guy didn’t die in the crash. Witnesses saw him get out the car and start arguing with the other driver. Next thing he’s on the ground. And the cops found a gun in the abandoned car, a Glock.’
Berg said, ‘Huh. But it still doesn’t mean –’
‘Same witnesses say the driver left the scene with someone else. A skinny teenage boy, or possibly a young woman.’
‘That’s them.’ Purkiss sat up, feeling the adrenaline spike. ‘Ramirez, and probably Pope.’
Berg said, ‘Danny, do you have a licence plate on the abandoned car?’
‘Waiting on it from the local cops.’
‘It’ll be up ahead,’ said Berg to Purkiss. ‘Keep your eyes open.’
In a minute Nakamura’s voice returned. ‘Cops ran the plate through DMV. It’s from a car rental place in Charlottesville.’
‘Our girl all right, plus whoever’s with her,’ said Berg. ‘Danny, get a –’
‘Description of the person who rented it. Yeah, I’m already on it, Berg. Eat my dust.’
Berg grinned. She glanced across at Purkiss.
‘Good feeling, huh? When you’re closing in. You’re kind of like a cop. You know how it is.’
She put her foot down a little. Nakamura’s Taurus was a couple of cars behind, keeping up easily in the relative lightness of the traffic.
Nakamura came back on the line. ‘Rental place is an all-nighter, but the guy there wasn’t on shift when the car was rented. However, he checked the records and it was booked out to a Douglas Torrance. British licence holder. The photo from his licence is being scanned and sent to me. I’ll forward it so Purkiss can see.’
He rang off. When the phone sounded again Berg said, ‘That’s a text,’ and Purkiss took it and looked at the screen.
The photo was blurred and distorted from being first photocopied and then scanned, but there was no doubt who it was. Pope.
‘Our guy?’
‘Yes.’
*
Berg and Purkiss spotted the flashing lights at the same time.
Purkiss had been lost in thought. So Pope had taken the girl, but hadn’t killed her despite having had ample opportunity to do so. Did she know something he needed to find out? But if so, where was he taking her? Why hadn’t he simply interrogated her where he’d snatched her? Or was she in some way his accomplice, travelling with him voluntarily? That made even less sense.
‘There,’ said Berg.
Across the highway a petrol station cut a familiar sight, a single large haulage truck in the forecourt. Less familiar were the two cars with active flashers parked, it appeared, across both points of entry and exit.
‘Worth a look,’ said Purkiss. Berg turned off and as she did so, rang Nakamura. His voice came across the speakerphone.
‘Nothing about it on the police frequencies.’
The slip road, or whatever they called it over here, led to a traffic circle beneath the highway. Berg navig
ated it, the Taurus close behind, and came off on the road running past the service station. As they approached Purkiss saw two men crouched near the closer car. Plain clothes, with no external markings on them or their vehicle to suggest they were law enforcement.
Both men were armed with handguns. One was talking into a mobile phone. They turned to look at the two cars as they drew up.
One of the men, the one without the phone, strode over as Berg killed the engine. She opened the door and the man said, ‘Police business. Get back in the car and drive away.’
Purkiss was about to climb out himself when he saw movement in the window of the building beyond the pumps. He peered through the windscreen. Two figures, there: a man holding a smaller person, a woman, in front of him.
He eased open the door and slipped out, staying low to the ground. Behind him he heard Berg snap, ‘FBI. Let’s see some ID.’
Purkiss moved behind the car, through the headlights of the Taurus which had pulled up behind, and began to make for the grass verge that ran along one edge of the forecourt’s perimeter, towards the side of the building.
*
The verge was deep in shadow and he made it without challenge. Only once did he glance at the window on his way. A fair-haired man, holding a woman with his arm across her neck, a gun pressed to her head. The features weren’t distinguishable but he knew it was Pope and Ramirez.
A fire door was set in the back wall of the low, long building. He reached for it, then thought better. It would be alarmed, especially at this hour. Purkiss moved along the wall until he saw a small window. He ran a few paces and jumped, catching the ledge and hauling himself so that he perched on it. The glass was opaque but he could make out a restroom beyond.
Purkiss stripped off his coat, the one he’d borrowed from Nakamura, and balled it around his fist. Gripping the open fan window above him for stability, he pressed the covered fist against the glass of the larger window, increasing the pressure steadily until he felt and heard a tiny crack. He eased off, then pressed again. The glass splintered and gave way, fragments shattering on the porcelain below. Purkiss held his breath. Distantly, from the other side of the building, he could hear angry voices shouting, Berg’s predominant.
