For the Fight Page 6

  He was undeniably an arsehole, but did that justify killing him?

  From a police procedural point of view – and in real life, not the movies - no, Lou decided. With the information E-SWAT had, not yet.

  Without evidence of someone’s life being under actual, immediate threat, the E-SWAT team’s only option was to negotiate this to a peaceful conclusion.

  So meanwhile, inside this carriage, Nate and Lou were still on their own.

  And in this carriage, Lou still had very little hope that this wasn’t going to escalate.

  The anticipation that oozed from Carey’s every pore was all about violence. Everything about the man was about violence. Lou had no doubt that violence was a tool he saw as part of his everyday life. If he wanted something, if he was angry, if he was frustrated … he’d use violence.

  And today he was all those things.

  The familiar melodic dings that usually heralded the opening of the carriage doors were loud and out of place in the tense carriage.

  Of course, their doors didn’t open. But the doors to the other two carriages did, and Lou twisted in her seat to see if there were any police waiting for the hostages.

  But the platform was empty, the unoccupied metal bench seats looking so normal in a line in front of the red brick station building, no one visible beyond the original, beautiful many-paned windows.

  As Lou watched, hostages streamed from the two open carriages. The front carriage passengers headed to the ticket barrier at their end of the platform, while the rear carriage headed for the other ticket barrier, almost directly in front of their centre carriage.

  The passengers from the rear carriage were a motley group – three young teenage girls, a few men in business attire, a smartly dressed woman with her arm around an older gentleman as she guided him to the exit. Not one of the hostages carried a bag, and not one hesitated as they fled through the open ticket gates.

  They’d clearly been guided by the police – and Lou thought she might have glimpsed the outline of an E-SWAT operator in overalls, ballistic vest, balaclava and helmet amongst the shadows as the hostages entered the station’s main hall.

  Although whether she saw him or not, she knew they were there.

  Waiting.

  She glanced at Carey. She’d kept him in her periphery vision as she’d watched the other passengers. He hadn’t moved from beside book lady.

  She wasn’t surprised.

  Carey didn’t care about the other carriages. He cared about this carriage.

  He lifted the phone back to his ear. “Get me my son.”

  So close.

  Fuck, how many times did Carey have to walk past Nate but not quite fucking close enough for Nate to be certain he could disarm him? Maybe if he hadn’t been so bloody stupid before and charged across the carriage at him, the man wouldn’t be giving him such a wide berth now?

  But regardless, he hadn’t got his opening, even though he was searching for it constantly.

  In his ear, Oscar had filled him in on the set-up.

  A couple of sierras – snipers – were stationed some distance away opposite the platform. There wasn’t a lot of cover between the railway line and the harbour – just a huge car park where freighter ships dropped off brand new cars from overseas, and a few miscellaneous red-roofed buildings beyond a vacant lot. But the building they’d picked, beyond all of that and on the edge of the harbour, was plenty close enough for the E-SWAT sierras who would have no problems even a kilometre away. And there was another sierra at closer range, hidden within the station building somewhere, who also had his sights on Carey.

  But they didn’t have an order to shoot. Not yet. But if – when – they did, the train’s door and window glass were incredibly strong – and would definitely impact the trajectory of the sierras’ bullets. Sure, they had special rounds for shooting through glass, but any shot would deviate – and how much wasn’t an exact science.

  And just like how Nate hadn’t taken a half chance (or even an 80 percent chance) on attempting to disarm Carey because of the potential disastrous consequences of an error. This was just as true – more true – for the sierras’, with so many hostages in here.

  The rest of the E-SWAT operators had surrounded the train with a couple of guys just below each carriage door facing out onto the tracks, out of sight, but only metres away.

  But they’d decided not to risk boarding when the other hostages had exited, even though Carey hadn’t noticed that the rear doors had also been opened along with the platform-facing doors – or that they were still open. But they would board, soon. The team was just waiting for the right moment.

  “Rex!” Carey said, into the phone. “You on your way to see me, boy?”

  His tone was different – a caricature of sing-song and friendly, but not even close to hitting the mark. Nate bet his son was very familiar with the malice that underlined every word his father said.

  They hadn’t been able to hear a word of the negotiator’s side of the phone conversation – but they did hear Carey’s son when he spoke. Or rather, shouted. He must have, for his young, strong voice to be so crystal clear.

  “Have you hurt Mummy?”

  How old had Oscar said Rex was? Twelve? Maybe old enough to have shifted to calling his mother ‘mum’, not ‘mummy’. Old enough to think he was grown up, not a little kid any more.

  Yet he’d called her mummy, and the fear, anger, accusation, and youth in his voice was heartbreaking as it reverberated around the carriage.

  Nate shifted his attention from the Glock momentarily to glance at Fiona. Carey had hit her hard, and she probably had a concussion from that blow and the subsequent whack against the train window. She’d looked fuzzy and not quite there since she’d woken, but at her son’s voice, he saw the determination he’d glimpsed earlier ease back into her body. She was a fighter, this woman. She’d left this piece of shit and rescued her children already. What she was thinking right now was as clear as day: I am getting off this train and back to my kids.

  The only potential roadblock to this plan was now waving that Glock around as he yelled at his son – the brief pretence of playing happy families obliterated.

  “Don’t you miss ya dad? Don’t you want to see me? It’s been over a fucking year that bitch has kept you from me!”

  Rex didn’t speak loud enough for the silent carriage to hear him, even though they all hung on every word of the conversation. Book lady stared up at him, not even a metre from Carey, her perfectly coiffed grey-blonde hair a jarringly elegant contrast to the brutish thug standing in the aisle.

  “Rex? Rex?” Carey said urgently. A pause. “No, I don’t want to fucking talk to you right now. I want to talk to my son.”

  He started walking again. Only a few steps. He paused in front of the guy in the suit. If Nate had been suit guy, Carey would’ve been close enough for Nate to go for it. This would’ve all been over in seconds.

  But suit guy had his back pressed hard against the gaudy fabric of his chair, his legs twisted the way you do when people need to get past you to get to their seats at the football or a concert or something. He wasn’t going to be disarming Carey – not that Nate wanted him too. He didn’t need any misplaced heroism on this train. Especially with the E-SWAT guys so close.

  “Rear carriage, Smithy’s in.” Oscar said into his ear.

  Nate didn’t move a muscle, didn’t look, didn’t do anything.

  “Five more minutes? Are you fucking kidding me?” Carey started walking again, his movements jerky and tense. But he was keeping up the other end of the carriage, too far away from Nate.

  Someone groaned – probably suit guy, maybe one of the teenagers. At being in this limbo for another five minutes? He needn’t worry about that, as Nate thought it was highly unlikely this situation was going to last that long. Carey was a tinder box, and something was going to happen soon.

  Through his earpiece Nate knew the team was still holding out hope for this to be ended peace
fully, for the negotiator to be able to talk Carey off this train.

  But Nate didn’t see that happening.

  It might not be on Carey’s record, but this shithead had killed before. And he wanted blood today. Nate felt it in his bones.

  The man was angry. He was directing it at Fiona, but was that really it?

  Or was there something more to this?

  “No!” Carey said. “I gave you two fucking carriages full of hostages. That’s enough.” The man shook his head as he paced again, his stride even more agitated now. “You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you? Think you’ve tricked me? All those hostages for a fucking phone call. I’m giving you shit, and if you keep this up I’m gonna shoot someone.” He paused, once again in front of suit guy. If he lifted the Glock, if he pointed it at the hostage, this was ending.

  Carey’s fingers flexed on the gun’s grip, but he didn’t raise it from beside his thigh.

  “Fridge is in, rear carriage.” Oscar’s voice was crisp in his ear.

  Two armed operators now on the train. Both in the carriage furthest from where Carey now stood. Smithy was experienced, ten years in E-SWAT. Fridge had been in two years, still a newbie in this world, regardless of his almost ten years as an ordinary beat cop before that.

  Another ordinary beat cop sat beside him, her body a tense mass of energy even as she sat perfectly still. Lou had always been like that for him, so intense, so full of everything. Determination. Grit. Stubbornness. Lust. Love.

  She was magnetic – and for so long he’d allowed them to be drawn together, until he’d began to understand that it was up to him to keep them apart.

  But, yeah. Nothing ordinary about Luella Brayshaw.

  He just knew it was killing her to sit so still, to be so helpless. Hell, it was how he felt too. But he at least knew what else was going on. He’d do just about anything to tell her what he knew, and even more so: to put his arm around her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

  Although he didn’t know that, of course.

  Everything could still go terribly, terribly, bloody wrong.

  “You want a show of fucking good faith?” Carey’s voice was edging onto a scream now, well beyond a shout.

  Nate knew that the negotiator would be scrambling to dial Carey down, to get him out of this electric, knife-edge of a mood.

  But it wasn’t going to work, he didn’t believe that at all. This wasn’t ending with Carey walking off this train.

  Suddenly, Carey was on the move again. This time towards him and Lou.

  “Fine,” he said, flatly, into the phone. “You can have your fucking show of good faith hostage, then I need to see my kids. I need to see them. You got it? You got that?”

  Carey came to a halt, just to the far side of Luella.

  “Get up,” he said to Lou.

  She looked at Nate. What do I do?

  “That wasn’t a question, nosy bitch,” Carey said. “Not a fucking question at all.”

  Oscar was in his ear, urgent and distinct: “We’ve got new intel from covert ops. This guy does have a history of gun violence, so when the door opens, the sierras and the guys on board are ready if he looks like shooting.”

  Nate nodded, but he didn’t like this at all.

  If? It wasn’t if, it was when.

  Lou didn’t like it either. He could feel her unease. This didn’t feel right – not that anything ever felt right in the middle of a hostage situation – but this wasn’t right. He could feel it in his gut.

  But what were their options? Say no?

  Carey’s finger rested on the trigger, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, a jittery mess of activity. Of anger and fury and violence.

  Lou stood.

  “I’ll let you off, so you can stop pissing me off,” he said, in an almost jovial tone. Like he and Lou shared a private joke. “Walk to the door,” he said.

  Lou glanced at Nate as she passed him, her leg brushing against his knees.

  Had she done that on purpose? Touched him on purpose?

  But that wasn’t another reassuring touch. In her eyes Nate could see that she knew this felt off. It felt very, very wrong.

  But the E-SWAT team was in place. As soon as that door opened – and the connecting doors between the carriages at the same time Nate guessed – they’d have multiple clean shots on Carey.

  Only a few more seconds, and everyone would be safe. Lou would be safe.

  But right now, she wasn’t.

  His whole body prickled with awareness, with the certainty that this wasn’t like before. Carey wasn’t going to let Lou just walk off the way he’d let the other two carriages of hostages go. He’d picked Lou for a reason.

  He hadn’t chosen the grey-haired woman, who sat with tears now openly streaming down her face, who posed zero threat to Carey. He hadn’t chosen the two teenagers: the two children who had their whole lives ahead of them.

  He hadn’t chosen Nate, who was taller and stronger and the only potential threat that Carey knew about on this train.

  He’d chosen Lou.

  And despite only minutes ago being adamant that these carriage doors would not be opened, Carey no longer cared. He wasn’t even hanging back as Lou walked to stand right in front of the doors. He was right there, right beside her.

  And then he wasn’t.

  As the train began its familiar beeping as the door began to open – a sound that now felt anything but benign – Carey took a step back. Lou took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders as she faced the carriage doors and the safety beyond. There she stood: tall and determined, her hair a long rope between her rigid shoulder blades.

  Then Carey took another step.

  Nate was halfway to his feet as Carey spoke, making Lou jerk her head to hear him, her braid flinging over her shoulder.

  “They’re never going to let me see my kids, you fucking nosy bitch!” he yelled, the Glock lurching upwards.

  And then as Carey fired, Nate threw himself through the air.

  Chapter Seven

  Glass exploded above Lou as she collapsed to the carriage floor, showering her in a blizzard of harmless safety glass snow.

  Something burned – her shoulder, her neck, her arm? Lou had no idea, and it didn’t matter.

  She wasn’t dead. But she needed to do something, now, or Nate might be.

  The force of Nate’s body propelled Carey against a row of empty seats, both men grunting with the impact.

  The gun.

  Where was it?

  Lou leapt to her feet, as Nate grappled with the smaller man. Nate might have him in height, reach, and skill, but Carey was rabid. He fought Nate with a desperation that seemed almost superhuman, although none of his blows landed as Nate easily ducked and weaved. But both Carey’s hands were formed into fists. No gun.

  Where was it?

  Lou rushed passed the fighting men, her eyes on the ground, trying to guess where the firearm had gone.

  “Here!” It was book lady, her voice a stage whisper, as if she didn’t want Carey to hear. But Carey was too busy trying to avoid Nate’s fists – and failing, as that unmistakeable sound of bone hitting flesh again, then again, sounded behind Lou.

  The bloody carriage doors were still dinging: surely the doors were open by now?

  But it just added to the cacophony: grunts and fists and thumps and dings as bodies smacked against chairs and floor and walls.

  The gun lay neatly beside book lady, on top of her book: the lethal chunk of metal incongruous against the embracing couple emblazoned across the romance novel’s cover.

  Lou reached for the Glock, but the woman placed her hand on top of it. “What are you going to do with it?” she asked, with a narrowed gaze and dried tears covering her cheeks.

  “I’m a police officer,” Lou said, “and so’s he,” she added, nodding at Nate, who deftly avoided another misfired punch.

  Lou didn’t wait for the woman’s reply, she just grabbed the firearm and
held it easily in her right hand. Despite knowing the residual warmth of the grip was from Carey’s touch and sweat, the relief in holding it was visceral: a shiver that swept through her body. She had the gun. And on equal terms, Nate had Carey covered.

  This was over.

  She turned to face the men, just in time to see Nate land yet another blow that sent Carey clear across the cabin. Fiona snatched her legs upwards as Carey skidded along the floor on his back, then perched her heels on the edge of her chair, her face pale but for the bruise still blooming across her face.

  The dings still continued incessantly, and Lou glanced at the doors: still closed, except for the damage done by the bullet – in fact one panel of the door had shattered completely. Nate stood at Carey’s feet – talking briskly through his comms, his attention never shifting from the unconscious man at his feet.

  Nate sent the briefest look in Lou’s direction. “The bullet’s done something to the doors, they won’t open,” he said.

  Lou nodded. “I’ve got the gun,” she said, and Nate looked back again, his eyes catching onto hers for longer this time, relief mixed with adrenaline in his gaze.

  We did it.

  Lou got that, the buzz of satisfaction of getting the bad guy. It was probably primal – good triumphing over evil or something. Whatever it was, it felt damn good. Especially sharing it with Nate. That hadn’t happened before, she’d met him at cadet training, she’d never worked with him on the—

  A strangled noise cut through the never-ending dinging as Fiona suddenly threw herself on top of Carey’s unconscious body, her arms and legs pumping and kicking as she screamed at him, landing blows wherever she could.

  “I hate you!” Her voice broke. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

  Swiftly Nate reached for her. “Fiona, don’t—”

  But suddenly she wasn’t on top of the prone man any more. Her body was yanked from Nate’s outstretched fingers, and somehow, in a flurry of activity, her back was pressed against Carey’s chest, and the no longer prone man held a flick knife to her throat.