Assassin's Express

by Jerry Ahern

  Frost winked at her. She smiled, almost looking embarrassed that she had.

  Frost stopped, his back beside the stairwell door—Three floors down, he thought. The elevator would be quicker, but also easier to trap him in. He wondered just how fast he could make it down six half-flights of stairs, taking into account that as soon as he was through the door, the nurse would be on her telephone and the young police officer would be right behind him.

  “Bye!” Frost smiled, shoving through the panic-locked door and into the stairwell.

  He stood right beside the door, expecting the police officer to charge through, to figure Frost was now running down the stairs for his life.

  Frost waited, almost holding his breath.

  Frost set the young officer’s gun down on the landing in the corner, emptying it first and pocketing the six rounds of ammo.

  The door creaked open, then burst wide, and the young black officer was streaking through it and onto the landing, starting for the first step before Frost rasped, “Officer Friendly?”

  The young man spun half-around, starting to reach out for Frost. Frost’s right foot came up, the toe smashing forward into the policeman’s stomach—something made Frost feel like not seriously hurting the guy. Friendly doubled forward, Frost’s right fist hooking up. The one-eyed man rasped, “Hope you got a strong jaw, pal,” and Frost’s knuckles impacted against the tip of the policeman’s chin. The man started to fall back, into the stairwell; Frost grabbed at the officer’s shirt front and tie, hauling him back, feeling the young policeman’s legs buckling. Frost shook his head—the man was still conscious, his hands swinging, attempting to fight.

  Frost laced him once across the jaw with his left and wheeled him around, letting him sink to the floor in the corner of the landing beside his gun.

  “You’re a good man, Officer Friendly,” Frost snapped, starting down the stairs now as fast as he could. Frost had always secretly admired the guys he’d seen throughout his lifetime who could take steps two or three at a time on the way down—Frost just wasn’t that coordinated, he realized.

  He was on the second-floor landing by the time he heard the sirens starting outside the hospital. He smiled, hoping nobody was sleeping. “The hell with it,” he rasped, flipping the railing from the next stair flight to the flight below that, almost twisting his right ankle. “Won’t try that again,” he snapped, hitting the next landing, swinging around it, and starting to the first-floor stairwell door. On impulse, he pulled it open fast—two police officers were starting through it to cut him off. Frost grabbed for the first man, again not wanting to kill, blocking a swinging right from a fist holding a dark wood night stick. The stick cracked hollowly against the wall beside Frost’s head. Frost lashed out with his right fist and clipped the policeman across the jaw. The second cop was starting for him and as the first man went down, Frost grabbed the night stick from the limp right fist of the first man. As the second cop’s stick crashed down, Frost half-rolled to his right, blocking the night stick blow with the stick from the first policeman.

  Frost edged back as the cop swung the stick in his right hand like a scimitar. The night stick Frost held was in both his hands and when the police officer recovered and started crashing the night stick down again, Frost blocked it, then took a half-step in, toward the man’s body. Frost’s left knee smashed upward; the police officer half-turned to avoid the blow. But Frost’s knee hadn’t been aiming for the abdomen or groin. Frost’s left leg stopped halfway to the target, his foot kicking out, into the policeman’s right knee. There was a rush of air and a groan from the copy as he started to buckle back. Frost snapped the butt of the night stick he held forward, into the tip of the policeman’s jaw, letting the man fall, and turned to the doorway.

  There were at least six police officers—that was all he had time to count—storming toward him. Frost shouted at the top of his lungs and hurled the borrowed night stick. All six policemen ducked, one of them going for his gun.

  Frost started to run toward the main hospital doors, but two policemen blocked his way. He knew better than to expect them to use their guns in the crowded hospital main floor. He rushed them; the two men—one of them bigger than Frost by a good thirty pounds—stood shoulder to shoulder between him and the door. Frost extended his hands and shouted, a karate-type yell. Both men raised their guards, expecting, he guessed, a martial-arts attack. Frost drew his pistol; both men started for theirs, but their raised hands were too far away from their belts to make their draws.

  “Out of my way or I croak ya’—so help me,” Frost snapped. The smaller of the two cops stood his ground a moment longer than the larger man—short guys were like that sometimes Frost thought—and he edged between the men and started through the glass doors into the circular driveway. Then he started to run hard—outside the hospital there’d be nothing to stop the police from shooting.

  “Get him!” Frost heard somebody yell from behind him as he hit the sidewalk on the far side of the driveway—he mentally bet it was the short guy. There was a gunshot behind him; the pavement beside his feet was chewed up from the impact of a slug. Frost jumped like a runner in a track meet—but instead of a hurdle it was a hedgerow. He cleared it, hearing another shot from behind him, then dived to the ground into a roll, the Browning High Power still in his right fist. He snapped off two fast shots, aiming high, hearing the sound of glass shattering, then shouts from some of the policemen pursuing him. “He’s got a gun!”

  Frost wondered what they thought it was he’d been shooting. He fired two more shots, then scrambled to his feet, starting in a dead run across the grass fronting the hospital main building and flanked on his left by the driveway leading past the emergency room and out into the street.

  “Get that son of a—” Frost snapped two shots over his left shoulder half-wheeling, intentionally shooting high. He glanced from side to side, trying to determine where to run. Far along the grassy area, beyond the furthest extension of the hospital building itself, he could see a long greenway, almost like a golf course. He laughed as he started to run—it had to be the perfect hospital, the doctors could play golf while they were on duty. He started running for it, his hands low at his sides, his shoulders thrown back, his lungs already starting to ache, his shins cramping.... He thought of the time he’d spent in London going around the bars, the pubs, hanging around the offices of New Scotland Yard, searching for a lead on the terrorist bombing.... Bess, he thought, his mouth wide open, panting for breath as he ran, feeling the tightness in his throat that wasn’t from the running . . .

  He could hear more shouting behind him. Wheeling, he snapped off two shots at a phalanx of pursuing policemen; the officers almost dutifully ducked to avoid his gunfire. He ran again, crossing past the far corner of the hospital building and into the greenway, temporarily out of their line of fire until the police crossed into the greenway as well.

  Frost stopped, bending double, his belly aching, his breath coming in short gasps. Sweat streamed down his brow, under his eye patch; his hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked ahead of him, felt a breeze cooling him, then started running again, across the greenway and into what looked almost like a park beyond it, tree-studded; a small wooden bridge loomed up ahead of him.

  The police officers were rounding the corner of the building; Frost dived for cover in a depression in the grassy ground as they fired. Still trying not to connect, not to kill a policeman, Frost fired—two rounds, then two more—firing low into the ground in front of the dozen police officers, then into the air as they dived for cover.

  Frost looked around the greenway—there was no cover. He’d still have to run, he knew. Pushing himself up on his hands and knees, then to his feet, he took off in a low, dead run, toward the small wooden bridge.

  “There he goes,” Frost heard someone shout. Instinctively, he dived toward the base of the bridge, gunfire from the police service revolvers hammering around him, into the ground and the rough wooden bridge s
upports. Frost rolled down a small embankment, sliding in the dirt; his feet stopped at the base of the small grade. He looked down. “Damn it,” he rasped. His sixty-five-dollar shoes were awash with water. He mentally shrugged—if you were going to have a bridge, it only made sense to have it be a bridge over something. He pumped two rounds toward the police officers, the dozen or so men firing back almost in unison. The ground in front of Frost’s face was torn up, pieces of dirt and sod spraying against his face and his hands. Frost fired again. The Browning’s magazine wasn’t empty yet, but he took the moment to swap for a full magazine anyway, dropping the partially spent Metalifed magazine into his side jacket pocket. Fourteen rounds in the pistol, he pushed away from the embankment, following the shallow water away from the shelter of the bridge; his feet sloshed in the stream.

  It was a small stream, and at the far end there was another low embankment. Above it he could see a low, wrought-iron fence, more ornamental, he thought, than for security. He started running again, along the water’s edge and toward the embankment, clambering up the side, his feet slipping because his shoes were wet. As he slid down, his face grated against the gravel embankment; Frost pushed himself up with his hands. His palms felt as though he were pushing against broken glass. He squinted his eye against the sun and looked below the fence through an opening in the hedgerow. “Naw,” he rasped. Frost pushed himself up over the lip of the embankment, then half-stumbled toward the fence. He could hear the sounds of voices behind him, the sounds of someone thrashing through the shallow stream, as he pushed through the hedgerow. His trouser leg caught on a thorn, ripping. Having shoved the Browning into his belt, he grabbed the fence with both fists, and started to haul himself up. The side of his jacket caught and tore on one of the ornamental spikes; then Frost dropped over onto the other side.

  It was a sanitarium; white-uniformed nurses and orderlies stood behind or beside wheelchairs—the people, arranged almost like pieces on a chessboard, all started toward him. Hearing the sounds of voices getting louder, he glanced behind him, then started to run.

  “Get out of the way—look out!” Frost shouted.

  No one moved. He looked behind him, to where the nurses and patients and orderlies were staring. Almost as if they’d rehearsed it, ten of the twelve policemen who’d run after him were flipping over the fence.

  Frost wing-shot the High Power over their heads. One of the officers tripped as he cleared the fence; the others ducked into the bushes or flattened themselves on the ground. Someone shouted, “Don’t shoot—look out.”

  A smile crossed Frost’s lips. He thought if he could have seen his own smile in a mirror he would have called it wicked.

  He started running again, toward the center of the knot of old people and hospital workers.

  “Halt! Halt!” There was a shot and Frost spun around, seeing a policeman in the center of his pursuers with a service revolver still pointed muzzle-skyward. Frost started to turn, to run. There were hands grabbing at his shoulders and he wheeled, staring into watery gray eyes in a face that was a field of wrinkles.

  “Hold it, boy!”

  The man had to be eighty, but the eyes, despite their wateriness, were dead serious.

  Frost looked at the man. Then, controlling his voice, making it dead serious, he whispered in a confidential tone, “I’m really an apprentice G-man and this is a training film—relax.”

  There was a puzzled look in the eyes and Frost shrugged off the restraining hands as gently as he could, then started running again.

  He saw what he wanted—a fence, on the far side of the sanitarium grounds.

  Frost ran dead-out-the Browning High Power cocked and locked in his right fist—hearing the shouts of the policemen behind him, nurses screaming, some of the old people shouting; one of them laughing, another screaming, “Right on!”

  Frost hit the fence, rammed the pistol into his trouser band, and jumped, getting hold of the top of the fence. He felt something holding his left ankle. He looked down—at a white-coated orderly with curly blond hair and a look of determination in his face. Frost kicked him with his right foot square in the look of determination, then flipped the top of the fence.

  Frost hit the ground, but it wasn’t level and he started to roll, snatching at his gun as he splayed out on the ground at the base of a low embankment. He pushed himself up; then ran toward the parking lot a hundred yards to his left. All he could see were police cars. One had the Mars lights on, the doors open. He spotted four policemen disappearing around the far corner of the lot—evidently having just run from the car.

  Frost heard somebody shouting. “Shit, Larry! You left the motor runnin’!”

  Frost hit the police car, almost throwing himself behind the wheel. Cranking the stick into reverse, he cut a wide arc to his right, then threw the transmission into drive. He started out of the lot; the rubber screeched as he stomped hard on the accelerator. The cops who’d been following him were running toward him; one of them threw himself on the hood of the car. Frost stomped hard on the brakes, then threw the car into reverse, cutting another wide arc. The cop fell off the hood of the patrol car; the front passenger door caught on the fender of another police car and tore away.

  Frost got the transmission into drive again, then hammered the gas pedal down under his soggy right shoe. He heard and felt the leather squish, then lost the sound in the roar of the engine. The driver’s side door slammed closed as he wheeled hard right out of the parking lot into the street.

  There were police cars blocking the far end of the street, but Frost didn’t worry about them—he wasn’t going that way, he knew. He cut the wheel into another hard right, into the rear of the hospital driveway, toward the far parking lot where he’d left the taxicab.

  He could see it ahead of him. Cutting the wheel hard left, he peeled off the police car’s left front fender on a concrete abutment. Then, cutting the wheel right, he stomped hard on the brakes, threw the gearshift lever into park, and half-fell out of the squad car.

  “The keys! What the—” But Frost found the taxicab keys in his trouser pockets, fumbled the door lock and crammed inside behind the wheel.

  He pumped the pedal, turned the key; the taxi didn’t start. He tried it again. The car started, then stalled out. “Flooded,” he muttered, looking over the hood of the taxi, watching as the squad cars closed into the parking lot, seeing the policemen who were on foot converging on him. “Patience,” he muttered; then counted to ten, forced a smile, and slowly turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Frost touched the fingers of his left hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the dashboard.

  He revved the engine, then before it slowed, was already hauling the cab into reverse.

  There was a drag. He released the emergency brake; the cab lurched backward—too fast. He hammered into the front end of the nearest squad car, before he worked the shift into drive, stomped on the gas, and started across the parking lot.

  There were two police cars, wheeling to a half a hundred yards in front of him. Frost cut a sharp right, bouncing off another police car just parked there, then started diagonally across the parking lot. There was a grassy hill on the far side and he didn’t know what was beyond it. He got his right foot all the way to the floor and started toward it, the taxicab bounced up over the low curb, then ground up the grassy hill. Frost couldn’t see anything past the top, and then he was there. The hill dropped off and Frost felt a sickening feeling in his stomach as the taxi sailed through midair, every bone in his body shuddering as the taxi impacted.

  “My God—I’m alive,” he rasped, then pounded his foot to the floor. He was back on the broad palm-lined boulevard and he didn’t understand how. There was honking, shouting, and he realized he was driving against the flow of traffic. He tapped the brake pedal, cut the wheel hard left, and skidded from a sloppy bootlegger turn up and over the grassy area separating the two-way traffic. Bouncing into the opposite lanes, he joined the flow of cars.

  Miraculo
usly, there wasn’t a police car behind him, and he had no desire to push his luck. Frost hauled the cab into the far right lane and made the first right, then turned down an alley. He could hear sirens in the distance. He didn’t wait for them. Reaching into the rear seat he snatched up his luggage and ran toward the far end of the alley. There Frost sank into a heap behind a fence, caught his breath, then boosted himself up and looked over—a Doberman lunged up toward him, missing his left hand by less than an inch as he let go of the fence top and dropped back into the alley.

  Frost grabbed up his baggage and started to run again. He could still hear the Doberman barking and yelping so he turned his head to shout, “Sorry!”

  Chapter Four

  Having found the nearest good-sized men’s clothing store and purchased a pair of slacks as an excuse to use the dressing room, Frost left his luggage temporarily behind the cashier’s desk and changed out of his ripped and grass-stained blue three-piece suit. The slacks weren’t bad, really, but the price had been a little inflated he’d thought—and besides, he hadn’t needed them, just the place to change. He’d told the clerk who’d waited on him that he’d been the victim of muggers whom he’d repelled and that he felt so self-conscious about his appearance that he wanted the fresh clothes before consulting the police. He didn’t think the clerk had bought the story. There was no reason it should have been bought—why purchase a pair of slacks when you’re carrying luggage, one piece of which is clearly a suit bag? In the taxicab he’d taken after leaving the store, Frost had changed out of his suitcoat and into a blue denim jeans jacket. His shoulder rig and the Browning High Power were wrapped up in his old pants. He’d changed taxicabs twice more; before he caught the last one he’d ditched the eye patch over his left eye and replaced it with dark, big-lensed aviator-style sunglasses.