Assassin's Express

by Jerry Ahern

  He made a right, then a quick left into the far driveway of the gas station, pulling up by the far end of the large concrete apron rather than over by the pumps. He turned to the girl. “When I get the car, however I do it, you be ready to run and don’t forget my backpack.” He scratched his several-day-old beard, then pushed the keys for the FOUO car under the front seat.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “Look—once the feds get this back if they can’t find the keys, they’ll have to get new keys made—and that means they’ll raise taxes. What am I—a fool?”

  She looked at him a moment, then started to smile, and Frost, reaching across and touching her left thigh with his right hand, said, “Be back in a flash with new wheels, kid—keep the faith!”

  Frost opened the door quickly, instinctively pulling up the collar of his jeans jacket against the rain although it almost felt good to him; he had neither bathed nor washed his hair since the last time he’d shaved.

  Frost ran his tongue across his teeth as he ran toward the open side door between the two large garage-type doors protecting the mechanic’s work area from the rain. He promised himself that as soon as he’d stolen the car, he’d at least find the time and opportunity to brush and floss his teeth.

  Frost hit the small door, fought the slick-feeling metal doorknob, and gave it a hard twist, then stepped through, inside. Water streamed down his face from his hair; his eye patch felt sodden, the collar and back of his shirt under the jeans jacket heavy and cold. There was no one in the work area. He glanced to his left and started across the bay past a car in the middle of an oil change. His wet jeans clung to his legs, making him feel heavy as he walked into the office.

  He took one step up, then stopped. There was a guy wearing a light-blue shirt with the name “Raphael” on the pocket and around him were two guys dressed like cowboys, almost as wet-looking as Frost felt; and a massive-looking man in a plaid shirt and windbreaker with a truckdriver’s wallet in his right rear pocket and a sheath for a big lock-blade folding hunter on his hip. All four of the men were staring at Frost. Frost smiled, then looked over their collective shoulders. A small, fuzzy-pictured color television set was mounted on the wall in brackets, the sound too low for him to hear accurately what the news announcer was saying. But there was a picture on the screen—his hair had been combed for once. It was the photo taken of Frost after he’d foiled the airline hijacking some months earlier. 2 Two men, trying to get the place to Cuba, had used a knife held at the throat of a stewardess as their lever. Frost had stopped them with the help of a woman passenger. A smile crossed his lips a moment as he remembered her, wondering what she was doing now.

  The gas-station attendant—Raphael—leaned across to the television set, reached up, and raised the sound. “. . . wanted in connection with a string of bizarre incidents which began several days ago in Los Angeles. To repeat, federal authorities are looking today for Henry Stimpson Frost, former captain in the U.S. Special Forces and reputed mercenary soldier. The Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has warned persons that if Frost or the suspected female assassin he is traveling with should be spotted, both are to be considered armed and dangerous. . . .”

  Frost, the smile riveted to his face, walked past the burly truckdriver, reached past Raphael, the gas-station attendant, and the two motorists, and turned off the television set.

  He looked at the man named Raphael. “Poor reception anyway.”

  The truckdriver made the first move and Frost countered the haymaker by wheeling right, stepping inside the truckdriver’s punch. As the right flew past him, Frost’s left elbow smashed back, into the bull-of-a-man’s solar plexus. Frost’s right elbow snapped up and back into the chest, his left foot driving down across the right foot of the truckdriver. As the man started doubling forward, Frost wheeled again—this time left—stepping out of the truckdriver’s failing guard. Frost’s left fist shot out in a straight jab to the man’s chin.

  The gas-station attendant was already starting to react, a revolver coming up in his right hand from behind the cash register. As Frost finished the left jab to the truckdriver’s chin, Frost swung his left out toward Raphael in a wide arc, the fist opening, the edge of Frost’s left hand connecting with the left side of Raphael’s neck. The gun fell from Raphael’s right hand and clattered to the floor.

  Now the two cowboy motorists were coming at Frost, their hands reaching for him. Frost’s right leg went up, feigning a knee smash to the nearest man. The man started to block it; Frost’s right foot kicked out instead. Frost’s instep connected hard with the man’s left kneecap, his right fist shot up and out, the middle knuckles aimed just below the Adam’s apple. Frost’s right pulled back, then hammered forward again for a second blow.

  The one-eyed man backstepped. The second cowboy, stumbling over the first man going down in front of him started to dive toward Frost who sidestepped. The cowboy bypassing him, hitting into a pyramid-shaped stack of motor-oil cans, that crashed down to the floor. Frost wheeled right, his left foot shooting out and catching the cowboy near the tail bone, kicking him forward and further off balance, into a couch at the far end of the office.

  Frost wheeled one-hundred-eighty degrees around to his left. His right hammered forward, clipping the chin of the first cowboy who was already on his feet; the man stumbled back.

  Frost started to spin left, then ducked. Raphael, having the biggest storage battery Frost had ever seen in both hands, hurled it. Frost hit the floor; the battery sailed over him. As Frost glanced back, the battery hit the plate-glass office window, the glass shattering.

  Suddenly the office was streaming water, the wind outside blowing the rain at them. Frost was half-up to his feet when Raphael came at him. Frost’s right punched out into Raphael’s stomach; then Frost’s left angled high for an uppercut to the tip of the gas-station attendant’s chin. Frost was on his feet, the truckdriver coming up from his knees. Frost feigned a right-left, one-two combination; the truckdriver raised his guard. Frost’s right foot shot up and out as Frost half-stepped to his left, the toe of Frost’s combat boot catching the truckdriver just above the big trophy buckle he wore. The man doubled over and fell forward.

  Frost glanced up to the wall rack with automobile keys on it. He snatched an odd-shaped, rubber-backed key. The tag wired to it read, “Tightened belts, adjusted timing.” Frost shrugged, glancing into the parking lot. He saw the car belonging to the key—a vintage Volvo P-1800s; about a ’67, he judged. Frost jumped through the broken window, over the frame, and into the rain, breaking into a dead run for the off-white two-seater sportster. The door wasn’t locked and Frost pulled it open, sliding behind the wheel. “Damn it!” He pushed the seat back—a woman had obviously driven the car there and the mechanic hadn’t bothered moving the seat back. Frost found the purse-handle-type hand choke, pulled it out all the way, and turned the key. His foot stomped down on the clutch, his right hand moving the short throw floor-mounted stick into first, his right foot stomping down on the gas as he raised his left off the clutch. The drive-shaft-mounted emergency brake was already off and the car streaked forward, the tires screeching. Frost slowed the car. Balancing it with the gas pedal and clutch rather than keeping his foot on the brake, he stopped beside the FOUO car. Jessica Pace was already out, running around the front of the Volvo. Frost reached across, working the door handle. The woman tossed his pack and her purse through the open door first, onto the jump seat, then almost threw herself inside. “Ready?”

  “Yeah—ready,” she shouted back. Frost punched down on the gas, his right hand pushing in the choke; the tach raced up over three thousand RPMs before Frost stomped on the clutch, revved the gas pedal, double-clutched to upshift, and did a racing charge from first to third, cutting the wheel hard right as he did. He let up on the clutch; the car stalled a second, then streaked forward. He double-clutched and down-shifted into second, making the turn onto the freeway entrance ramp fast and tight, the Vol
vo’s rear end fishtailing a little on the slick roadway. As it started straightening, he punched the H-pattern manual into third, then hauled it into fourth gear as they jumped the acceleration ramp and hit the highway.

  Frost found the small lever on the steering column and flicked it; the red light came on in the dash and the engine noise dropped. “Electric overdrive,” he grunted.

  Jessica Pace commented drily, “I take it you’ve driven a sportscar before—I’m glad you can do something.”

  Frost didn’t say a word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frost had stopped earlier and cut the covers off an adventure novel he’d been reading to use as backing for the new license plates. Using small wire cutters carried in his pack and practically ruining the M-16 bayonet carried there as well, he had taken the Volvo’s plates and cut out the numbers and letters as neatly as possible. Then he rearranged them, using a tube of glue he’d gotten Jessica to pick up at a convenience store to secure them to the book covers, and reassembling the “new” numbers to the exterior diameters of the plates. They didn’t look perfect and close inspection would have revealed they were homemade, but from a distance he definitely thought the plates would pass—and with the different numbers, there was a greater chance of evading a casual pickup by a highway patrol car.

  Now he opened his eye and looked around him. Rain was still streaming down over the Volvo’s windshield.

  “Hi—you slept. You needed it, I think.”

  Frost looked around, saw Jessica Pace’s face in the shadow in the front passenger seat. “The rest area, right?” Frost’s mouth tasted bad and he didn’t really feel like waking up yet. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Four hours.”

  “You get any—”

  “No—I figured somebody should sort of keep the watch, stand guard—you know.”

  Frost stretched as best he could in the bucket seat, yawned, asking half through the yawn, “Did the rain let up at all while I was asleep?” His clothes felt damp and he shivered a little.

  “Not a bit—you gonna try driving again or do you want me to do it some more?”

  “No—that stretch in the afternoon where you took it for a few hours helped. And I guess the sleep helped too. I’ll try the wheel again. You gotta go to the bathroom or anything before I get going?” He started to sit up, stretching again.

  “No—I’m fine. No facilities here anyway—we can hit the next gas station, maybe.”

  “Yeah.” Frost grunted. He decided he’d wait too, sat up straight, pulled the choke on the Volvo, and then turned the key; the engine roared to life.

  “How come you drove so badly with the trailer? You’re doin’ fine with this.”

  “Well,” Frost told her, throwing the car into first and releasing the emergency brake, “I like full-sized cars and I like sportscars—not much in between. The trailer threw me. I kind of miss it, though. Maybe I’ll buy one sometime.”

  “What would you do with it, Frost?” she asked, her voice sounding almost sad. “I mean where would you go with it?”

  “Ohh—maybe get a Ford Bronco with four-wheel drive, take the trailer up into the mountains, and just unwind for a while.”

  “You got a girl, Frost?—I mean not just somebody you flop down with—”

  “You put things so nicely.” Frost smiled, glancing into the water-droplet side-view mirror, then turning on the lights and the windshield wipers. “I had a girl—we were gonna get married.”

  “For real—I mean, you’re not puttin’ me on?”

  “Why don’t we just skip it?” Frost snorted, looking over his right shoulder then starting to pull out of the parking space. The rest area was lit up like something for Christmas, he thought. The trucks parked there had their running lights on, some of them forming elaborate shapes, even faces. He pased several as he started for the rest-area exit.

  “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me—but what happened?”

  “I don’t want to tell you,” Frost said; then, “She died. We were in London, just picked up the ring I’d gotten for her. Old ring I had, got it cut down and a diamond set in it. There was a bombing—terrorists, maybe the IRA, maybe somebody else. The whole side of the first floor where she was was destroyed—didn’t even find any identifiable remains. Last I checked they weren’t even a hundred percent certain what the remains totaled up to in terms of numbers of dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said after a long moment, her voice sounding hoarse. “I really am. I bet she, ahh—bet she loved you a lot, huh?”

  “Yeah—loved me a lot,” Frost said, feeling his throat getting tight as it did every time he thought of her.

  “What are you going to do after you get rid of me?”

  “Go after the guys that got her—find ’em, kill ’em, keep ’em from killing anybody else the way they killed Bess.”

  “That was her name?” Jessica Pace asked softly. “Bess?”

  “Yeah.” Frost grunted as he watched the traffic, its lights blindingly bright through the rain, moving slowly in the opposite direction. “Bess—that was her name. Bess,” he said letting the word out slowly like a breath. “Bess.” He realized he was gritting his teeth.

  “I’m sorry, Hank—I am.”

  “About her?” Frost asked.

  “Yeah—but for a lot of other things, too.”

  “You think you’ll really make it after your thing with the President?”

  She was silent for a long time before she answered, her voice sounding almost as though she felt relieved when she said the word, “No.”

  They drove on, Frost listening to the weather bulletins on the radio, hearing them talking about heavy rainfalls, flash-flood watches, and washed-out roads. He didn’t say anything to Jessica Pace, let her sleep instead, heard her muttering—again half the words in Russian. She figured she was going to get killed after she spilled her list, Frost thought. She figured that no place would be good enough to hide from the people she fingered or from the Russians. She was an odd girl, Frost thought. He’d slept with her, but didn’t know her. She was changeable—from tough to almost childishly innocent. Her mouth probably made her more enemies than she realized—it wasn’t frankness, or thoughtlessness either. It was almost desperation, as though she didn’t have the time to phrase something better—had to say it while she could. He’d lived on the edge of things—sometimes thought he was going to die—but never on a daily basis years on end. It was a mental problem and he didn’t know the right words to describe it. The troubled sleep, the attitude when she was awake. He half-wondered if, after she recited her list, all the reason for clinging to her sanity would be gone and she’d have a breakdown. And would he be around for it? He hoped not, but wouldn’t just run off if he saw it coming on. Frost laughed at himself. The girl needed a friend. “Old friendly Frost,” he muttered to the rain-streaming windshield and the lights that half-blinded him. He yawned, settling back and trying to keep awake.

  Frost yawned, trying to stretch and at the same time push himself up in the seat; his shoulder and neck ached with stiffness. He stared into the oncoming tanes—somebody really had brights, he thought. The light coming toward him looked like aircraft landing lights. He muttered to himself. “Probably going to be abducted by a UFO now—I was waiting for that to happen. Everything else has.”

  He tried to look away from the light, but it seemed to be coming across the median strip toward him. “Motorcycle?” he rasped to himself. “Out of control!” he shouted, cutting the wheel hard right to avoid it, reaching out with his right hand, shaking the sleeping Jessica violently, then moving his hand to the stick, down-shifting, cutting the wheel left again, hearing the gravel crunching under his tires. The light was still coming at him—too fast, he realized and he cut the wheel right, down-shifting into first. The tachometer was red-lining, the engine roaring, the Volvo shaking under him.

  “Frost!”

  “Look out!” the one-eyed man shouted. He saw the trees b
eyond the shoulder, saw them coming at him; the light seemed to come down at him. What the—”

  Frost threw his hands in front of his face and dove down across the drive shaft and over Jessica Pace huddled there in the passenger seat, hearing the crunching of metal, the tearing sound, the shattering of the glass, the roar, then the silence of the engine. There was a hissing sound and he looked up; steam shot up toward the windshield—the windshield was intact. “Get out,” Frost shouted to Jessica Pace.

  “What?”

  “Out of the car!” He reached into the jump seat, found his pack and her purse. “Come on!”

  He looked skyward—the light was bright, over them. And the whirring sound suddenly hit him. “What is it?” Jessica screamed.

  “A damned helicopter—run!”

  Rolling out on her side after her, his knees in the mud, Frost pushed the woman from the car. The Browning High Power flashed into his right fist, its hammer jacked back under his thumb. “Run!” He shoved the purse at her; she grabbed it and started into the trees. Frost, the pack in his left hand, started after her as the ripping sound of an automatic weapon came at him over the whirring of the rotor blades overhead. Rain lashed down at his face; the spotlight still half-blinded him. There was more automatic-weapons fire. The car behind him exploded as he turned and looked up at the helicopter. The orange fireball blinded him; the impact of the exploding gas tank knocked him to the ground.

  He heard Jessica Pace screaming something that sounded dirty. Frost squinted against the light, saw the Walther in her right hand. “Run!” he shouted again. He saw her face in the light from the chopper, shouted at her again, “Run!” Frost, still on the ground, thrust the Browning High Power up, the Metalifed finish gleaming in the bright light. His trigger finger twitched once, then once more. The light was coming closer to him. He could hear the automatic-weapons fire again. He kept pumping the Browning’s trigger as fast as he could, the 9-mm bucking in his hands as the 115-grain gilding metal-jacketed hollow points shattered the spotlight and there was suddenly almost total darkness except for the orange glow from the burning automobile. Frost pushed himself to his feet, slipping in the mud, half-stumbling forward as he started to run.