For Everything a Reason Page 24

  ***

  Pyotr Krylov snatched the bag and then turned his back on Perkins. He heard a whine of desperation and grinned maliciously: Perkins seemed to be in a rush to reach his journey’s end – a crude shank in the ribs, no doubt.

  The Russian threw the bag over his shoulder and quickly headed for the exit. He’d taken only a few steps when two figures appeared to flank him on either side. He halted then, wondering if there had indeed been a cop presence within the station. A long examination earlier had revealed nothing. Now, though, his calculating brain quickly processed a sudden change within the internal layout.

  The café front appeared to have one chair empty, while the newsstand was occupied by just the woman. Krylov chanced a glance to either side. No mistaking it, the guy from the café and the one previously busying himself with magazines had taken up position on either side of him.

  FBI?

  Thinking quickly, Krylov made a show of exasperation, as if he’d just remembered leaving something behind. He spun on his heel and headed back the way he had just come. Momentarily confused, the two pursuers appeared to lose sight of their target.

  Krylov was making his way towards one of the platforms. He reached the first step to one and looked up to check if the path was clear. Most of the human traffic was heading in the same direction as he was, hurriedly climbing the steps towards an arriving train. In opposition, two men, broad shouldered and broad faced, were descending quickly towards him.

  Krylov stopped with his foot an inch from the second step. Both men had weapons drawn. Compact pistols were pressed tightly at the hip, hidden from the unsuspecting eye, but not to a man of Krylov’s disposition.

  This was not standard FBI procedure.

  The Russian felt a spasm of fear. What did these guys want? They were coming fast now. Krylov held their gaze for a moment longer, and then twisted around, ready to head back the other way. The two men that had originally flanked him had closed off his escape. Krylov looked from one to the other. Both had cold expressions on their faces. One, a handsome individual of impressive size, held Krylov’s stare with vehement attachment.

  Krylov caught his breath. He knew this guy. Yes, the slight scar that ran from his nose to the side of his upper lip was unmistakable: a telltale sign of a corrective procedure for a harelip.

  Although the two were at a distance, the guy with the scar spoke loud enough to be heard.

  Krylov’s blood turned cold. This was not a linguistically trained FBI agent speaking to him in his native tongue. No, the words had been spoken with a distinctly native Slavic enunciation. The guy was of Muscovite ancestry through and through.

  Pyotr Krylov understood without question that these men were here for just one thing: his blood. His hand moved towards the weapon at his side. The guy with the scar mirrored his movements as he too went for his weapon.

  A fifth figure appeared, directly between Krylov and the armed men. She was of slight build with cropped brown hair. Her gun was already drawn and aimed towards the Russian’s head. Krylov took his eyes off the two men for an instant, to gauge the woman’s intentions. When he looked back over her shoulder an instant later, the two men had gone, simply disappearing in the throng of moving commuters.

  ***

  “Freeze!” Tyler ordered, her weapon drawn.

  Krylov did just that.

  “Put the bag down, and turn around,” Tyler instructed.

  A string of foreign words came from the Russian’s mouth.

  It was enough to knock Tyler out of her rhythm. Did this guy understand English? She pointed to the bag. “Down,” she said, now pointing to the floor.

  The guy made a show of lowering the bag to the floor, twisting slightly to one side, as if it weighed much more than expected.

  Tyler missed the man’s intention. He used his bent frame to conceal his free hand. It was then she became aware of his objective.

  Too late.

  The guy’s weapon appeared – a large oily-looking monstrosity – with a long barrel and elongated handgrip. It took just a millisecond for Tyler to see that the firearm had been modified to hold a larger clip of ammunition – possibly converted to be fully automatic, too.

  Her inexperience and the fear of injury to nearby commuters made Tyler freeze for just the briefest of moments. It was more than enough.

  The gun continued to rise.

  A brilliant flash of gunfire blinded her and, in the next second, she felt herself crash heavily to the ground – her breath knocked out of her and her chest agonisingly tight.

  Tyler found someone lying on top of her. She gasped, in an attempt to fill her lungs. She struggled awkwardly, and the unexpected face of the gun-bearer came into view. His mouth was open, eyes staring straight ahead, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from one ear. She pushed against him, pulling herself free. In the next instant, Detective Carter was by her side.

  “You okay?” Carter asked, holding out his hand.

  Tyler placed her hand to her chest. No warm sensation of running blood, or the numbness of a body in shock. She allowed Carter to drag her to her feet.

  A small revolver hung at the detective’s side, a wisp of gunsmoke snaking slowly from its barrel. “Close call.”

  Tyler turned to the body at her feet. Now that she was standing she could see the gunshot wound – a small hole just to the right of his earlobe – which leaked surprisingly little blood. A thick pool of crimson was rapidly spreading from the other side of his head. The bullet had travelled clean through, killing him instantly.

  What remained of the crowd had now pushed themselves back against the foyer walls, cowering away from the bloody violence, leaving just the two detectives in an open arena.

  “What are you doing here?” Tyler asked.

  Carter looked pained.

  “What is it?”

  “My son’s killer, he’s here,” he said.

  “What? Where?”

  “Here.”

  Tyler spun full circle. Nobody moved. She searched each face available, finding none that fit the description of William Carter’s killer.

  “I don’t see him,” she said.

  “He’s gone, in the confusion.”

  “Wait,” Tyler said, now uncertain. “Where the hell is Joseph?”

  Carter’s mouth opened, but no words formed.

  “Where is he?”

  “I–I’m not sure,” he admitted, shaking his head.

  A little voice spoke, just to the side of them. The detectives turned to the speaker. A toddler, a blond-haired girl with pigtails, holding onto a teddy bear, had stepped forward, away from the cowering commuters. The child’s mother rushed forward, quickly scooping her up, and the small teddy bear fell from her grasp. The mother looked terrified, and the child reached out in an attempt to retrieve the stuffed toy.

  Tyler flashed the mother her shield. “I’m a detective,” she said simply, and then turned to the child to ask, “What did you say, honey?”

  “Mr. Tickles,” the girl said.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Tickles,” the child said again, jabbing her short arms towards the floor.

  Tyler reached down to grab the bear. She handed it over. “What did you say, honey?” she asked again.

  “The big black giant and the fat man,” said the girl.

  The woman gasped in shock and embarrassment at her child’s political incorrectness.

  “Ella – don’t speak so rudely,” she chastised.

  Tyler ignored the woman. This was the type of witness that all cops preferred: Tell it straight. “Which black giant and fat man?”

  Ella used her stubby arm to point first to the foyer’s entrance and then towards one of the passageways, which led to a nearby platform.

  “The black giant went that way,” she said, pointing back to the foyer. “And Mr. Tickles saw the fat man go that way,” she finished, using the bear’s arm to indicate Platform 7.

  Carter almost fell over himself to get past Tyle
r. The young detective stopped him short.

  “No,” she said, seeing his murderous intentions. “Go get Joseph and Jake. I’ll deal with Perkins.”

  Carter hesitated for just a moment and then nodded. What the hell had he been thinking? He leaned forwards, patting the toddler’s head, and then took off in the opposite direction.

  Tyler quickly stepped back to the dead Russian, took his discarded weapon, and then raced towards Platform 7.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Icy patches made Joseph almost lose his footing. Slipping and sliding, he kept up the chase. The dangerous conditions were also thwarting the Russian’s escape. Joseph watched as Yurius fell to his knees. He clawed his way up and then cut across the street, heading quickly for one of the adjoining alleyways.

  Joseph stepped off the sidewalk, almost falling under the wheels of a truck. The blare of a horn stopped him short, just as flesh and chrome were about to meet. The truck whizzed by in a blur.

  Hurriedly, Joseph crossed to the opposite sidewalk. A few pedestrians stood back out of his way, unwilling to either engage or obstruct this frantic-looking man. The clatter of a trashcan lid falling to the floor reverberated towards him. Joseph took off in pursuit.

  The alleyway narrowed quickly to become a tight funnel of brickwork. The open trashcan forced Joseph to step carefully. It slowed him down. He pushed the thing to one side and scooted around it. Clearly, Yurius had simply vaulted over it, catching the lid as he went.

  Joseph stumbled his way towards the end of the alleyway. An abandoned parking lot opened out before him. Just one car was parked there, and it was this vehicle that the kidnapper made his way towards.

  “Yurius!” Joseph bellowed. “I know who you are! Where to find you!” This went against everything Carter had told him. Nothing mattered more now than getting Jake back, and this unexpected announcement halted the Russian’s escape.

  Yurius stopped abruptly.

  Joseph entered the parking lot. “Where’s my son?” he demanded.

  Yurius stood square-on, his hand slipping into his jacket.

  Joseph stopped.

  Only fifteen yards divided them.

  Yurius grinned, his perfect white teeth beaming. His hand appeared, and it held the silenced weapon.

  Joseph stood his ground.

  “Big Bear fell for trick. Now foot in trap,” Yurius said. The weapon rose to Joseph’s chest. “You loose end that needs snipping.”

  “Where’s my son?” Joseph asked, unfaltering, even this close to mortal danger. He took two steps closer and, surprisingly, Yurius took two back.

  “You stay there,” Yurius ordered.

  “What’s up, Yurius. You scared?” Joseph asked, taking a few more steps.

  The Russian grinned again. “Not by dead man.” His hand rose and the weapon levelled at Joseph’s head.

  Joseph stopped.

  Yurius seemed to regain his confidence. Just a few yards separated them. The trunk of the car – an old Ford – lay within Yurius’s reach. Using his free hand, he dug into his pants pocket. A set of keys jingled in the wind. A high-pitched bleep, bleep sounded and the Ford’s indicator lights flashed together for a second or two.

  “Lots of car thieves,” Yurius mocked, taking his finger off the alarm button. He half sidestepped and twisted at the same time, leaving the firearm out straight.

  “What are you doing?” Joseph asked.

  “I have gift,” the Russian said. The key slid into the lock, and the trunk popped open by a couple of inches.

  Joseph felt sick. What lay inside? His son, no doubt. But dead or alive? “Open it,” he demanded.

  The contents of the trunk were concealed.

  “Open it!” Joseph yelled, needing to know what the Russian had done.

  Yurius slipped his fingers underneath the trunk lid. He paused for a moment, almost pushing Joseph to breaking point. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he revealed what lay inside.

  Joseph’s knees buckled.

  Jake lay motionless. He didn’t turn to look up, or shield his eyes from the sudden glare. His hands and feet weren’t tied together, nor was he blindfolded or gagged.

  He just lay there limp and lifeless.

  “Oh… no…” Joseph cried, tears filling his eyes instantly. He took a faltering step closer, the weapon only a few feet from his head. He turned to Yurius and his agony turned to instant hatred. He rushed the kidnapper then, all thoughts of his own safety forgotten. Yurius sidestepped, evading the awkward, lumbering attack. The butt of the gun struck across Joseph’s temple. The boxer fell to the ground, the world turning dark for just a moment.

  “My boy…” Joseph wept. “What have you done?”

  The Russian waved the keys around, back and forth, as if trying to get the attention of a disobedient dog. “I am not monster,” he said.

  “What..?”

  “Yurius is not monster.”

  Joseph managed to get one knee underneath him. The world tilted and a bout of nausea made him gag. “What?” he asked again, swallowing heavily, holding back bile.

  The Russian swapped the gun to his other hand. He half perched on the trunk opening, forcing the car to drop slightly. Then he forced his free arm under Jake’s limp body.

  “Careful,” Joseph said. He held out his arm, hand spread wide, offering caution, needing to believe Jake was still alive.

  Yurius lifted Jake clear. The boy’s head rolled listlessly.

  “Oh – God, no,” Joseph breathed.

  Yurius placed Jake on the ground, not far from Joseph’s feet. The Russian stepped back, allowing Joseph to drag himself to his boy.

  He snatched Jake up. The boy felt warm and supple, and Joseph cried out in relief.

  Was Jake still alive?

  Tears cut two pathways down Joseph’s cheeks. “Jake,” he said, holding him tight. The hollow boom of the trunk shutting forced him to look towards Yurius.

  The Russian gestured with the gun. “Come, Big Bear – you know price for boy’s return.” The hammer of the gun clicked back, and the dark eye of the barrel bore into Joseph.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  On this side of the train station things continued as normal. The brutal event that had just happened in the main foyer had not, as yet, had any effect here. Most passengers stood about idly waiting. Some busied themselves with the morning papers, while others tapped their feet to tunes that came from oversized earphones. A couple of small groups chatted animatedly – fuelled by large doses of caffeine. Just a few commuters glanced towards the connecting tunnel, somehow aware that things were afoot, their primeval instincts more attuned towards trouble.

  Presley Perkins barrelled through the steady flow of passengers, receiving a torrent of abuse as he went.

  “Watch where you’re going, fat ass!”

  Another cursed in Spanish – a long string of profanities – that thankfully saved the ears of a young white girl, who was holding onto her mother’s hand.

  Presley pressed on. A thick sheen of sweat had broken out over his face. He reached up to wipe this stinging irritation from both eyes.

  “Perkins!” someone yelled.

  The voice was too high-pitched to be Carter’s. Spinning back, Presley saw a woman rush towards him. He paused, wondering who the hell she could be. Her look of hostility made him understand that she was after his blood.

  He pushed his way through the crowd of waiting passengers. Most stepped away from this agitated stranger.

  “Stand back,” the woman was shouting now, waving people out of her way.

  Presley scanned left and right. Both offered escape routes, but to nowhere in particular. The right stretched out towards a tunnel, and the left gave way to a crisscross of tracks and signal boxes. The fear of the dark pushed Presley to his left. He raced to the end of the platform, now alone, and checked for another exit.

  He found nothing. No second tunnel, ramp, or barrier to scale, which would lead him to safety.

  He thought ab
out crossing the lines to the other platform, but after checking behind him, he concluded the woman would simply do the same and catch him on that side instead. With no other option, he started towards the signal boxes and network of tracks.

  He stumbled along, his attention pinned to where his feet landed. A set of tracks to his right started to hiss. He took a fleeting look upward, expecting to see the arrival of a train, but the route ahead was clear. With a backwards glance, he checked the pathway behind him.

  The roar of a diesel engine filled his ears. The jarring noise and appearance of the freighter made him stumble. Hot, oily breath burnt at the side of his face. His feet slipped on the bed of stones and, for one terrible moment, he thought he was about to be crushed. In the next second the train hurtled by, drawing up a wind current that snatched at Presley’s sweat pants and threatened to pull him under. He battled to remain upright, slipping and sliding as he went. In a blur of bright chrome the last carriage whipped by, which left Presley gagging for a cleaner breath.

  The woman shouted something from behind, but the roar of the passing train drowned out her words. It mattered not; Presley wouldn’t have heeded them anyway. He carried on deeper into the maze of ironwork and sleepers. The stones underneath his feet were becoming fewer and fewer, now replaced by a continual stretch of train lines.

  Here, the hiss of the lines sounded like a nest of snakes. All about him the metalwork vibrated. Up ahead, he saw the towering front of an Amtrak passenger train. The distinctive colours of red, white and blue broke through the grey morning. Presley hopped onto the tracks to his right. The deafening blare of a horn scared him half to death. From behind came another engine, this one covered in dirt and grime, pulling a thousand tons of cargo and moving at just half the speed of the oncoming passenger train. He quickly stepped back into the first set of lines.

  The cargo train rolled lazily by like a bloated serpent. Presley’s left leg moved over to next set of tracks. Before he had the chance to place his foot down, a bullet ricocheted just inches from his position. His foot stayed on this side of the tracks and, in the next second, a third train roared by – an express that must have been going at nearly 80mph, which almost took his leg with it.