Never Back Down

by William Casey Moreton

  “Do you think I saw Ripley?”

  “No.”

  “I saw him, Detective. In fact, I’ve seen him three times in twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s an interesting statement.”

  “Because your almighty database tells you Ripley is dead?”

  “Correct.”

  “Ripley is behind the bag in that bathroom sink in there.” Coburn nodded at the open door.

  “You think he planted it there?”

  “No doubt at all.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because I’m a threat to him, or at least he views me as a threat.”

  “A threat how?” she asked.

  “He wants the world to believe he’s dead.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the fifty-thousand-dollar question.”

  One of the techs, a short Asian fellow with diamond studs in both earlobes, called to O’Shannon. O’Shannon was seated on the bed. He rumbled around the corner. The tech was holding one of the running shoes.

  “Found this jammed into the toe box of the shoe.” The tech handed him a leather wallet. The detective turned it over in his huge hands. The leather was damp from soaking in water. O’Shannon peeled it open. There was cash and three credit cards and a driver’s license. It was neat, tidy, and uncluttered. He pulled the ID. Then he glanced into the hallway.

  “Mr. Coburn,” he said, “You are officially in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  30

  It was Coburn’s wallet. He immediately knew that one of Ripley’s people had planted it in the room and then made the call to the manager. Standing in the hallway with Detective O’Shannon holding his wallet and ID. O’Shannon’s words ricocheted through his brain, I think you killed the girl. O’Shannon had a dead woman in the morgue and Coburn had walked right in the door and introduced himself. The whole day, from beginning to end, had been a mistake.

  The numbers were not in his favor. There were four cops in uniform, the two detectives, three crime scene techs, and Cassel the manager. One of the uniforms was standing post at the elevator. The remaining three stood informally around Coburn and Weaver in the hallway.

  Then there was Weaver herself. She was standing less than arm’s length away, her firearm in a holster under her jacket. He would make it less than ten feet down the hall before she had the piece drawn. Weaver had an athletic body. She moved with confidence. She could handle herself with or without a weapon.

  O’Shannon didn’t worry him. O’Shannon could barely get out of bed in the morning. He wouldn’t give a chase. Coburn doubted O’Shannon was much of a threat even with a firearm. He didn’t have the physique for it. Coburn’s decided to use his size against him.

  “What’s in your hand?” Coburn asked him.

  O’Shannon was standing between the bathroom door and the wall, the width of his body filling most of the space.

  “It’s your photo ID,” O’Shannon said.

  “Impossible.”

  “Sorry. Not impossible.”

  “My photo ID is inside my wallet inside my pocket.”

  “No sir. There are four credit cards here in your name.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I think you’re confused,” O’Shannon said.

  Coburn took a step forward.

  “This is bullshit,” Coburn said.

  “Easy, brother.” Coburn heard an officer say somewhere behind him.

  O’Shannon’s expression registered unshakable rock-solid confidence.

  Coburn brought his right shoulder slightly forward and he dropped his left hand to his back pocket. He saw the twelve-inch gap between O’Shannon and the wall and knew the door that joined this room to the next was about six feet ahead. It had been unlocked that morning and the room next door had not had an overnight occupant. It might be occupied now and locked, but the door was his only option.

  O’Shannon was too focused on Coburn’s eyes and that cost him. He was smugly displaying the laminated photo ID and watching the eyes for a reaction. Coburn kept his eyes on the photo ID, even as he stepped within the detective’s personal space. His move was fluid and quick. Coburn kept his right shoulder moving forward as he dropped around O’Shannon, sliding between the detective and the wall, and only then did his eyes snap away from the photo ID. Suddenly he was behind O’Shannon. He twisted at the waist, and brought his forearm up and drove it into O’Shannon’s back, redistributing his weight and pushing with his legs. The detective was slow to react and didn’t have time to set his stance. The force applied to the middle of his back sent him lurching awkwardly forward toward the open hotel room door, creating a temporary barrier between Coburn and the cops in the hallway.

  Coburn wheeled right, springing for the door that connected the two rooms. It was still unlocked. He turned the doorknob, pulled it open, and started the timer in his head.

  O’Shannon grunted as his shoulder hit the doorjamb. A full second elapsed before Weaver realized her partner had been shoved from behind.

  “Hey!” she shouted.

  O’Shannon managed to slow his forward momentum, but he had come to rest completely blocking the doorway.

  “Coburn!” Weaver shouted, lunging forward.

  She grabbed fistfuls of O’Shannon’s shoulder, trying to pull him out of the way. Every movement, every effort, burned precious seconds.

  Five seconds in, Coburn was through the door and had it locked behind him. The chrome bolt in the cheap fiber door wouldn’t hold them off long. It would buy him maybe thirty extra seconds.

  The timer in his head counted down. He could hear them shouting through the wall. He crossed to the window. The window panel had two handles that turned and allowed the panel to pull out about six inches. It was enough to let in outside air, but not enough for a jumper to fit through. Coburn tugged it open and felt a light gust on his face. The folding metal arms extended to their maximum length then locked. No way in hell he could though.

  Coburn backed away.

  He looked at the window and judged its thickness and strength. He turned and saw the reading table and chair. He put a hand on the back of the chair and pulled it out, lifted it and tested its weight. Then he wheeled, holding it high, and smashed it against the glass.

  31

  The cheap tubular aluminum legs shattered and splintered away. The glass spiderwebbed and weakened, but not nearly enough. The timer in his brain was down to only a few seconds. He dropped the trashed chair and went for the table. He smashed the table into the window and the glass pane caved. He punched the table on through the hole and heard it tumble down onto something metal outside. He heard Weaver shouting, but he didn’t turn to look. He couldn’t spare even one second. The slightest hesitation would cost him.

  Coburn went through the window. The sleeve of his shirt caught on the row of glass teeth running along the metal frame. The jagged glass snagged his arm. He felt the bite, felt the deep sting, and felt his skin tear. He hadn’t looked before he jumped, but he had expected to land on whatever hard surface the falling table had found. He fell shoulder first and hit the fire escape hard. The metal apparatus rattled loudly upon impact.

  Coburn looked back through the hole and saw them coming. Both doors were open. Cassel had opened the front door with his master key and there were uniforms pushing past him and rushing toward the window. Weaver slammed through the door from the adjoining room. She had her gun drawn. They were shouting as they charged across the room.

  Coburn went over the rail and dropped to the next level. The metal clanged. The air smelled of New York at night. Traffic moved in random fits and starts. Coburn could feel blood draining from his arm, soaking through his shirt. When he collided with the fire escape the second time the side of his head thumped hard against the metal grid. He saw sparks and was momentarily dazed but kept moving.

  Coburn looked up. He saw heads and faces leaning out through the smashed window. He looked left, then right. He was near the corner of the buil
ding. He wanted to get around to the other side, but the landing extended only in the opposite direction.

  The fire escape rattled above him as one of the cops dropped from the window. Lights from traffic streamed below. Coburn could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was twenty feet from earth. The metal rattled and tugged against the bolts in the brick.

  “Stop! Police!”

  Coburn glanced up through the grid and saw movement against the night sky. He heard radio squawk and quick footsteps and then he spotted an NYPD car parked at the opening of an alley. The driver’s door was wide open, and the man in blue was looking up at him.

  A city bus turned into the street.

  Coburn saw the cop and saw the lights from the bus. He watched the cop slow to let the bus pass. Then Coburn heard the timer in his head tick down to zero.

  32

  The bus was big and cumbersome and it swung wide through the turn. The cop was on foot. He had a visual on Coburn, but he had to wait for the bus to clear the intersection. Some pedestrians were crossing against traffic, and the bus driver was forced to drop a gear and tap his brakes. The bus shuttered to a stop halfway through the turn.

  Coburn watched the cop watching him.

  The cop had to make a choice - either kill a few seconds waiting for the bus to clear the turn, or burn some more time and calories circumnavigating the rear of the bus on foot. The time it took the cop to reach a decision gave Coburn the time he needed to reach a decision of his own and take action.

  The pedestrians were clearly in no hurry and maybe even a little drunk.

  The catwalk overhead rattled and clanged. A second cop had emerged and begun the delicate matter of negotiating a way down to chase Coburn.

  Coburn took one quick glance through the metal grid overhead but couldn’t make out much more than shadowy movement and a few flashes of NYPD blue. Coburn was widening the gap but that wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t on the ground soon.

  The cop on the pavement had decided to go around the bus. The driver tapped the accelerator in an effort to bully the jaywalkers. The big engine grunted and the bus surged ahead maybe a foot. The pedestrians leaned against each other for balance and staggered onward, giggling among themselves without a care in the world.

  Coburn saw the cop on the ground make his move around the bus and made a move of his own. The ground was twenty feet beneath him. He placed a hand on the iron rail and swung both legs over. The fall seemed farther than twenty feet.

  Coburn hit the ground and tumbled like a paratrooper. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the bus rumble through the intersection. The cop on the ground hadn’t cleared the bus yet, but that was coming in another two seconds. Several cars crowded in behind the bus, waiting for an opportunity to pass.

  Coburn backed away from the hotel. He heard shouting and spotted Weaver in the broken window, pointing down at him and calling out to the cops on the fire escape. Coburn turned and ran out into the street at an angle that put him ahead of the bus. Its headlights washed over him. For a moment he was spotlighted. He ran alongside the bus as it gained speed. Before it could leave him behind it slowly braked for a gnarl of traffic. Then Coburn sprinted hard.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. They were coming after him. It was too late to stop and explain.

  They believed he had something to do with the murder in the park. He knew they were wrong but none of that mattered unless he could prove it. And he couldn’t prove it if they had him locked away in a cell answering an endless cycle of mind-numbing questions.

  So he had no choice but to run, even if running made him look guilty.

  Coburn collapsed beside a dumpster in an alley to catch his breath before drifting back into the shifting SoHo nightlife.

  He took stairs down into the subway and casually jumped the turnstile. A cop spotted him, but not before the train started moving. He sat opposite the door and rode the train through multiple stops. He didn’t get off until he thought he was safe.

  33

  Smith and Lewis had gotten tangled up in the crunch of traffic caused by the NYPD pursuit. The Tahoe wasn’t built for speed or agility. It was big and boxy. Lewis was a good driver, but not good enough to drive through immovable objects like buildings.

  They had parked safely out of sight and watched the police presence with increasing interest. They had planted the wallet in the room and it would take Coburn a long time to explain it away. They didn’t see Coburn jump from the window, or make his run up the street, but they saw the sudden police frenzy.

  Lewis slammed the car into gear and squirreled through gaps in traffic but progress was slow. Smith bailed from the Tahoe and ran up the street. He passed along the outer edge of the crazed scrambling. He saw the activity on the hotel’s fire escape and saw the smashed window. Some of the holes in the narrative began to fill. It seemed Coburn was more capable than he’d thought, and that was not a good thing. Not good at all.

  Even worse, Coburn had vanished.

  Smith shouldered through a small snaggle of pedestrians and began working his way back to Lewis. He glanced up the block and realized how close he was to the bar where he had met Heather and bumped into Coburn. Time was burning. He had wasted enough energy and manpower on Coburn. Smith needed to get back to Caspian’s apartment and get back to business. Mr. Armstrong would be furious if he learned Smith had been distracted most of the day.

  His mind was already back at Caspian’s apartment as he passed a petite blonde woman without seeing her. She didn’t notice him either.

  The petite woman with blonde hair was Eva DuPont.

  34

  Eva DuPont was in SoHo dressed in black jeans and a tight black T-shirt. She had come to New York City to find Brian Ripley and kill him, but first she had to determine if he was in fact still alive. The Pentagon believed he was dead, but the ping on the federal database had worked her employers into a tizzy.

  If only she had known she had passed within a few feet of Ripley on the sidewalk, she could have turned and plugged him in the back of the head. They missed each other simply because they were two strangers passing in the night.

  Eva saw the area lit against the night in the distance. Washington Square Park was her starting point. A copy of the police report was downloaded onto her BlackBerry. She had it memorized, word for word. Ripley’s photo was burned into her brain.

  If he were alive, she’d find him.

  35

  According to the police report, Coburn claimed to have encountered Ripley and the woman in the bar around 11:30 p.m. on Monday night. The name of the bar wasn’t listed, most likely because Coburn hadn’t noticed or had failed to remember.

  Eva DuPont walked into the same bar at precisely 11:30 p.m. on Tuesday night. Finding the place had been a matter of simple deduction. She had started at the park and worked her way in an outward radius. She had a map of lower Manhattan, but she didn’t need it. She had it memorized.

  Her first professional kill had been in Boston, but her second had been in midtown Manhattan, in Times Square, on New Years Eve, in fact. It had been exhilarating, shoving the muzzle of her Sig into the target’s back and seeing him fold and fall in a sea of a few million legs.

  Eva followed the stairs down to the bar and found a seat where she could survey the room. She would have no way to know whether she was in the right place until she found someone who recognized Ripley.

  That didn’t take long.

  Coburn had been in the bar on Monday night, the start of the week for someone working the weeknight shift. A waitress or a bartender pulling the weekend shift would have put in Friday, Saturday and Sunday and would have put a kink in her door-to-door canvassing. A waitress from Friday wouldn’t be back around for another five days, but Monday through Thursday there would be a crew of familiar faces.

  Eva placed a one-hundred-dollar bill and the photo of Ripley on the bar.

  A brunette waitress with an empty serving tray trapped under her arm stopped and stared. The
hundred dollar tip helped her focus.

  “Look familiar?” Eva asked.

  “Should he?” The waitress flicked her eyes from the photo to Eva, then back again.

  “I need to know if he was here last night.”

  The waitress studied the photo. Eva watched her eyes.

  “Do you have any idea how many faces come through that door every night?” the waitress asked.

  “I’m sure they start to blur after awhile,” Eva agreed.

  The waitress nodded.

  “There was a confrontation between two men,” Eva said. “It was brief. Nothing overly exciting.”

  “Yeah, actually, I remember. One dude shoved the other. The whole thing lasted like ten seconds. One of the dudes came out of the bathroom with his face messed up. Wasn’t this guy,” the waitress added, jabbing a finger at Ripley’s photo.

  “But you recognize the man in the photo?”

  The waitress frowned.

  “Kind of. But this dude is too young. The dude last night was like old. Not old old, you know. Like maybe Brad Pitt old.” She winked with an awkward grin.

  Eva nodded.

  “Add twenty years to the face in the photo,” Eva said. “Would this be the guy?”

  “Sure.” The waitress shrugged.

  “How sure are you?”

  The waitress called over a friend, a blonde with the body of a twenty year old.

  “That little scuffle last night, was this dude in the photo that dude with the hot redhead?”

  The blonde blinked twice, looked carefully, nodded and said, “Yeah, like a hundred years older, but still totally hot.”

  “I’d say that’s him,” the first girl said.

  The blonde nodded in agreement.

  Eva produced a second hundred and placed the bills side by side. The waitresses ogled the cash.

  “This is important, and there is no wrong answer. I just need the best you can remember. So, on a scale of one to ten, how sure are you that this man was in this bar last night?”