Never Back Down

by William Casey Moreton

  NEVER

  BACK

  DOWN

  A Thriller

  WILLIAM CASEY

  MORETON

  Never Back Down

  Copyright 2011, William Casey Moreton

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  NEVER BACK DOWN is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  For SLM

  UH HUH

  1

  Today was the best day of her entire life, but she would be dead by midnight. She had been cautious and patient and had done everything right, and today was the day that all her hard work would finally pay off.

  In the morning she planned to leave New York forever. She would leave the country and vanish without a trace. She planned to run and stay on the move for at least a year. Asia was a good place to begin. She could get lost in Thailand, dwell close to the beaches and jungles and soak up the anonymity. There she could shop and drink coffee and stare out over the waters at every sunset at the edge of the horizon and watch herself transform into a new woman.

  Then she could go to Europe, to the valley of Chamonix, in France, with its dramatic mountain spires and awesome glacial ski runs. She could learn the language and teach herself about wine. She could live simply and anonymously in one of the snow-covered chalets and watch skiers descend from the surrounding peaks.

  Perhaps disappearing was unnecessary. Perhaps the friends of the man she was about to betray would never figure out what she had done and come after her. That was a risk she couldn’t take. It was better simply to run.

  Her small backpack was open on the bed. She would take only the single piece of luggage, something she could carry anywhere and keep close, allowing her to make quick decisions and move fast. An airline ticket was zipped inside an outer compartment where she could get to it quickly. She had paid cash for a disposable Visa card and used it to purchase a one-way ticket to Mexico City. In Mexico she would use the remainder on the card for a ticket to Thailand. She was confident she was leaving no trail for anyone to follow.

  She dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She was so nervous she was almost shaking. In the bathroom she turned on the faucet at the pedestal sink and splashed water on her face, then she glanced up at her reflection in the spotty mirror. She fussed a moment with the glossy red hair she considered her best feature and applied light traces of makeup and lipstick. She quickly brushed her teeth and then shoved the toothbrush into a tight corner of the pack. Lastly, she packed a gun.

  Twenty minutes later, she closed the zipper and set the pack on the floor beside the bed. She sat with her back against the wall and laced up her Nikes, her mind racing. She hoisted the pack onto her shoulder and eased open the bedroom door, then she crept through the tiny kitchen to her sister Sabrina’s bedroom. She cracked the door and peered inside. Sabrina was sprawled in bed, asleep in a yellow tank top with her back to the door. The only sound in the room was the soft whisper of Sabrina’s breathing.

  She stood silently in the doorway watching Sabrina sleep. A tear formed as she realized she would never see her sister again or be able to tell her goodbye. But there was no other choice. All she could do was blow her sister a kiss and wish her all the love in the world. She wiped the tear from her eye and turned to open the front door. She carefully unlatched the chain and unlocked the deadbolt. Then she swung the door open only wide enough to slip out into the hallway and she held back a flood of tears down six flights of stairs.

  A taxi skidded to a stop at the curb and she ducked inside.

  It’s almost here, she told herself. It’s almost over. In a few hours she would be a very wealthy woman. All she had to do was stay alive.

  The contact’s name was Smith. She had watched him a few times from a distance, but mostly he was just a voice on the phone. She had photographed several of them through a telephoto lens, but she’d failed to match names to the faces. They worked for Mr. Armstrong, and he was the one who mattered most because he was willing to pay millions of dollars for the name and location of one particular man, a man with whom she had carried on an intensely sexual relationship for the past several years.

  She paid cash for a pay-as-you-go cell phone and activated it as she headed to a café with Internet access. Grabbing a vacant computer, she glanced over both shoulders as she logged onto the generic Gmail account she had opened the day before. The keyboard clicked away as she keyed Smith’s Yahoo! address into the recipient field and then typed the newly-purchased cell phone number into the message field. She pressed send, and watched as the message shot off through the white cloud of cyberspace.

  She walked to Central Park and followed a winding path to a bench with a distant view of the Dakota. Shifting gray clouds crowded out the sun as the sky threatened rain. She hugged her pack close to her hip, obsessively glancing at her watch. It was going to be a long day of waiting.

  Smith called late in the afternoon.

  “Heather?”

  “Yes.”

  “The money has been wired,” he said.

  “Give me ten minutes to confirm the deposit,” she managed to say without sounding breathless. Her heart was racing.

  “Fine. Ten minutes.” He dropped off.

  She took a deep breath and dialed a number from memory. The call was answered by a man with a clipped English accent. He was seated at a desk in a bank in the British Virgin Islands. She requested confirmation of a deposit made to a numbered account, providing him with both the account number and her PIN.

  The banker confirmed a wire transfer to the account in the amount of $2.5 million.

  She set the phone on the bench and put her face in her shaking hands. Her body was numb. Time stopped as she realized the money was real, and that it was really hers.

  Smith called back.

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s there.”

  “That’s half,” he said. “The remainder will be wired when you deliver.”

  She could barely breathe.

  “You’ll have him tonight,” she promised. “Wait for my call.”

  • • •

  The black Tahoe sped anonymously along a serpentine route through the streets of Manhattan as a light mist began to fall. The lights of the city glowed jewel-like in the gloom.

  Smith talked on his cell, receiving last minute instructions. Jones was the driver. Brown and Miller sat in the second-row seats. They rode mostly in silence. The only voice was that of Smith on the line with Mr. Armstrong.

  Smith clapped his cell shut and stared out the window at the tiny beads of mist on the glass. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after eleven. Precisely fifteen minutes had passed since Heather had called to set the time and place. She had told him 11:30 p.m. at a bar in Greenwich Village. She wanted him to arrive on foot, unarmed and alone, and only after carefully assessing Smith and her own safety would she decide whether to go forward with the rendezvous. Heather had stated implicitly that she wouldn’t hesitate to change her mind, and that if she did, she would be gone for good and they would never hear from her again. Smith wanted to grab her and stuff her in the car, take her some place dark and quiet and teach her what true agony felt like as he peeled the answers from her. Heather was obviously smart. They were immensely skilled at tracking people, yet they’d been unable to track Heather. She had made no mistakes, and that was the only reason she was still alive. They considered that she m
ight not be working alone, and might even be part of a well-organized team. Tonight they would see her for the first time. It was a moment they had waited three months for.

  Jones drove them another block west down a one-way street. Streetlights shimmered off passing traffic. They studied both sides of the street. Smith punched the map light overhead with his thumb and double-checked the number he’d scrawled in ink on the palm of his hand. Jones tapped the glass with the knuckle of his index finger.

  “Right there,” he said.

  The bar was located below street level, with no window view from the street so there was no way to get a quick preview of the crowd loitering inside.

  Traffic pushed them down the block. Jones turned right at a cross street. He brought them to a stop at the curb on the west side of the street. The lights from a taxi a few feet back filled his mirrors.

  Smith checked his watch again. “Be ready,” he told them.

  The air inside the Tahoe felt electric. They’d been forced to sit on their hands for twelve interminable weeks of waiting. They were primed for action.

  Brown buzzed his window down. His prematurely white hair was cropped short, pink scalp visible beneath. Scar tissue from an old wound had formed a raised pink whelp three inches long directly beneath his left eye. He looked through the open window as he waited for Smith’s instructions.

  Smith told them, “Give me a few minutes, and then drift into the bar one at a time. Watch the door. Jones, don’t bring the car around until I give the word, and whatever you do, stay out of sight. We don’t know who she might have out there watching for us. If we spook her, she’ll bolt.”

  Smith made quick, brief eye contact with each of his three men. He shoved his door open and climbed out. He stood at the open door for a moment and looked in at Brown and Miller seated in the glow of the overhead light. “Remember,” he said, “Stay low and be ready.”

  Both men nodded.

  “OK, then, let’s do it,” Smith said, and he slammed the door shut.

  2

  Two days earlier and nearly three thousand miles due west, John Coburn stood in the rain and watched a casket be lowered into the ground. It was raining because the funeral was in Seattle, and Coburn was at the funeral because the man in the box was his father.

  Coburn had been in London, on layover from South Africa, when his eldest brother tracked him down to say their father had passed away. The conversation had been brief.

  “Dad is dead. Thought you should know,” Steven had announced with a tone of clinical detachment.

  “When and how?” Coburn had asked.

  “Cancer chewed him up.”

  “Damn.”

  “It attacked his brain. The diagnosis came nine months ago. We tried chemo, but that was a pointless formality. The old man never stood a chance. Can you come home?”

  “When is the service?”

  “In three days.”

  “What about Karen and Clarke? Do they want me there?”

  “You are our brother.”

  “Fine. Don’t bury him until I get there.”

  A Methodist minister read from a page of notes stuck in his open Bible and rambled on about eternal life. Coburn tuned out the minister’s words. He stood in line with his siblings, two brothers to his left, and his sister Karen, a tiny woman dressed all in black, on his right. Coburn felt out of place in his jeans and a plain work shirt.

  Shortly after the service, the family members gathered in their lawyer’s office and listened as the will was read and a lifetime of collected wealth was coldly distributed.

  “You don’t deserve a dime of Daddy’s money,” Karen said, the instant the siblings were in the hallway. She folded her arms over her flat chest and glared at the youngest of the Coburn brothers. “You weren’t here for him when he needed us most,” she told him. “I’m shocked he left you anything. He clearly wasn’t thinking at all in the end.”

  Coburn didn’t respond.

  “It’s a forty-year-old Cessna and a little cash, is all,” Steven said. “Almost all of Daddy’s millions have been divided between the three of us.” He made a small hand gesture to include only himself, Karen, and Clarke, who were lingering several feet away, still glassy-eyed from the graveside service. “Daddy basically cut John out. You don’t care about that old plane. What more do you want?”

  The discussion was over.

  • • •

  The hanger was a plain sheet metal box. Coburn raised the hanger door and began his pre-flight checks on the Cessna 172. He climbed in and fired up the spunky little 4-cylinder engine, the prop sputtering and building speed until it was reduced to a blur. He made radio contact with the tower. His North Face duffel was on the seat behind him, his only luggage for the unplanned trip. Coburn taxied the Cessna as instructed and followed the painted arrows on the tarmac. There was no need to file a flight plan because he had no destination in mind.

  The shadow of the small plane drifted over the forests of Oregon before crossing into California. His map remained folded on the empty seat beside him. He glanced occasionally at that empty seat, remembering the way Alison would sit and watch the distant terrain pass beneath them, her face silhouetted against the blue sky.

  The landscape darkened to a deep shade of purple as evening settled over whatever western state he had wandered upon. Roads and rivers traversed the patchwork landscape. Airliners left vapor streams thousands of feet above him. He studied the instruments and applied the data to his topo map. He made a series of shorthand calculations and concluded that he was currently winging over Arizona.

  It was a clear night. The moon was bright and full in the inky sky. He leaned his head against the glass and watched dramatic canyons scar the sprawling desert scrub. Mountains and stand-alone rock spires peppered the texture of the landscape. The engine droned in the darkness, and Coburn’s mind began to wander. Again, he caught himself glancing at the empty seat.

  He set the plane down on a rural airstrip seventy-five miles from the Texas state line. Red dust specked the windscreen. He shouldered open the door and was hit in the face by a blast of heat and humidity. He checked his cell phone and found a dozen voice mail messages. Steven had called several times, as well as a few friends with wishes of sympathy about his father. None of the missed calls were from his ex-wife or daughter.

  He walked a short way out across the tarmac and turned and stared back in the direction of the plane. His shirt was pasted to the sweat on his chest. He could feel the grit underfoot. He dialed a number on his cell phone and waited. A small voice answered. Coburn smiled.

  “Hi, Sweetie.”

  “Oh, hey, Dad,” Tasha said.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “How was school today?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “Um, still at work,” his daughter answered. “I’m here with Ms. Benedetti.” The nanny.

  “I miss you, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, I miss you too, Daddy.”

  “Well, tell Mom I called. Tell her I said hello.”

  “Bye, Daddy.”

  A long moment passed before he was able to breathe again. He unfurled his sleeping bag beneath the tail of the plane and was asleep almost instantly. He dreamed he was making love to Alison.

  • • •

  Coburn was back in the plane early. Texas came and went. By noon he was watching New Orleans make the slow crawl into view. He was tempted to land, but decided he wasn’t ready to be that drunk just yet. He changed headings and when he thought he smelled barbeque he abruptly put the Cessna down in Memphis.

  He caught a ride into town and heard the blues bands from miles away. He drifted the streets, the sounds of electric guitars slicing through the night air. The air was thick with buzzing amps and smoke from wood chips. His former life seemed a million miles away. Coburn buried his hands deep in his pockets and strolled without purpose. Around one in the morning, he found his
way back to the plane and peeled open the flap of his sleeping bag. Once again he dreamed of Alison’s naked body and the way he used to touch her.

  • • •

  He ignored his map and compass until the only thing on the horizon was the Atlantic Ocean. The shadow of the plane traced a lazy path up the coast as the tide rolled in and whitecaps shimmered in the midday sun. North Carolina gave way to Virginia. Coburn resisted the urge to drift inland. He might have been tempted to push on all the way to Maine before nightfall, but the needle on the fuel gauge reeled him in and forced him to begin making plans for a good place to pitch his tent. He finally consulted the map and picked New York.

  A billion lights from the city sparkled and danced. He landed at a municipal airport among the sprawl of general aviation hangers. He opened the door and smelled the city air. Less than half an hour later he was in a taxi in the Queens Midtown Tunnel, speeding toward the heart of Manhattan.

  • • •

  Coburn headed south on Third Avenue. He grabbed a slice of Italian sausage pizza and wandered the streets of midtown. He took the subway to SoHo and stood at an intersection, soaking in the sights and sounds of the night. The streets hummed. He felt anonymous.

  The glass towers of the financial district to the south stood tall against the night sky. The air was rich with cigarette smoke and the smell of food from street vendors. It was time to drink himself into oblivion. He stepped off the curb and signaled for a taxi, headlights from traffic washing past him in the sticky late summer air. A black Tahoe pulled to the curb a few feet ahead of where he stood. A taxi slowed to a stop and Coburn reached for the door. That’s when he heard someone say, “All right, then, let’s do it.” Sometimes that’s all it takes, just a sound or a flash of color at the right instant and a link falls into place like magic.

  Coburn told the cab driver, “Take me to the best blues club in downtown.”

  The driver nodded. Coburn glanced to his right and saw the Tahoe out of the corner of his eye as the taxi accelerated past it. The snippet of dialogue he had just heard rattled through his brain. I know that voice. The window was down far enough for him to see a man with a scar on his face and white hair. The face meant nothing to him, but a different face did.