Courier (17 page)

He let go of her hand, took two steps, and launched both boots right at the gate's latch. He ended up on the wooden floor but the lock gave, the entire left side bending back and the gate crashing open.

They were at the top of a square staircase built into the scaffolding. Three fast turns brought them back under the wooden platform and blocked another shot. Two and three stairs at a time, he pounded down, half pulling, half carrying the smaller woman.

When he heard their pursuer come through the gate and start down the stairs, he picked Eve up in his arms and began leaping down from one platform to the next, skipping the stairs entirely.

Jump. Crash to a landing and spin. Jump again. He was holding Eve in front of him, but his back slammed into the massive wooden sidewall on every third jump. He had to be careful not to break right through the makeshift railings on the other three sides – all that blocked the drop to the construction work far beneath.

The dig was at least fifteen stories deep, and after a few flights, the morning sun was blocked, and most of the light came from yellow work lights on every other landing. He grabbed a quick glance at the bottom without slowing and saw the tunnel entrance over to the right.

"The tunnel is to the right," he panted. "When we get to the bottom, head for the tunnel."

"What about you?" she said in a jolting stutter as he continued his spinning descent. "I'm not leaving you."

"I'll be right behind you."

He could tell by the sounds behind him that they were descending faster than the gunman. The guy must not be completely crazy, he thought.

Then they were on the concrete floor of what would someday be a subway station, and he shoved Eve toward the tunnel through a litter of boards, beams, and concrete mixers.

Rick turned back. He had to slow down the shooter – it was too much of a straight line to the tunnel. They'd never make it. He looked at the wooden stair and saw that it was solid, but clearly temporary, meant to be knocked out and removed when the work here was over. At the bottom, only a couple of long nails in each riser fastened it to a wooden crossbeam laid directly on the concrete.

He reached down, bent his knees, and lifted the lowest step. Years of concentrated effort had made his upper body strong – strong enough to overcome the damage the Cong had done.

To that strength, he added rage. Rage against the asshole behind him who had killed his friends, rage against the chickenshits who had sent him to that goddamn jungle, rage against the President who had sent his friends to die.

And who had taken fucking money for it!

The nails at the bottom pulled out with a scream, and he twisted the whole stair to the side, wrenching the flimsy supports, and pulled two flights down into a pile of boards.

"Jump that, motherfucker!" he screamed and took off toward the tunnel, jerking from side to side, and changing speed as he ran. He fully expected to be shot, but he heard a last bullet
sprang
off a pile of rebar, and he was in the tunnel, in darkness, running on the smooth concrete floor where the rails would eventually go.

Eve, who was waiting inside the tunnel entrance, caught up, and ran by his side. "Who the hell was that?"

"I don't know." Rick caught her arm and pushed her onward, catching her look of disbelief. "I'm telling the truth. I really don't know. I'm in the middle of something. Something big and ugly. I'll try and explain, but right now, we need to get out of here."

Running at any speed in the raw and unfinished tunnel was almost impossible, since the floor was crowded with piles of raw materials and construction debris. The best they could do was a fast walk. Every ten yards or so, the workers had strung bulbs in protective cages. Rick picked up a piece of steel rebar about four feet long and began to smash the lights.

"Adding vandalism to your crimes?" Eve said over her shoulder as she concentrated on where she was placing her feet. Twisting an ankle would be a real problem.

"Yeah, that will definitely be what gets me in trouble, but I have to admit it's getting to be a habit lately." Rick crossed to the other side of the tunnel. "Keep switching sides at random. If this guy makes it down, I don't want him to have an easy shot." He smashed out another light. "And if I can knock out enough of these lights, we'll be in darkness, and he'll be outlined against the light from outside."

For a few minutes, they were silent, concentrating on their footing. As in the open section behind them, there didn't seem to be any construction workers. They saw no lights moving up ahead, heard no sounds of air compressors or heavy machinery. Apparently, the workers had Saturday off.

Eventually, Rick looked back and said, "I guess our buddy couldn't find a way down. I didn't think he was properly dressed for running around construction sites, anyway."

"Who is these days?"

Rick looked at her face. She was intense and serious, but didn't seem to be terribly concerned. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the effort, but you just saved my life, got chased by some random shooter, and damn near got killed. Why?"

She looked at him, studying his face in the dim light, and then turned back to the way ahead. "I told you. My half brother was killed by the tribal police. They said he was trying to escape, except that his leg was broken long before he was killed. I got lost in my head for a long time after that, and I only came back to life through work. I defend activists who are being beaten up and killed on a regular basis by the FBI and the BIA. So, I guess calling the cops just wasn't my first reaction."

She was silent for another few steps. "And as for warning you, I guess you could call that a calculated risk."

"A ‘calculated risk'?"

She glanced back, and he could just see the smile in her eyes. "Yeah, you seem like a good person." She sighed. "Or at least a person who is trying to do the right thing. In any case, the kind of person who deserves to be warned."

"I don't know what the right thing is anymore. Right now, everything I ever believed in has just been thoroughly trashed."

"I know a lot of guys like you. Warriors who came back from the jungle with terrible wounds – except that the wounds don't show on their bodies. The worst scars are in their souls. They have nothing to believe in. Nothing greater than themselves." She glanced back again. "Most of them start drinking and don't stop."

"I told you, if booze worked for me, I'd be right in there with the best of them. But it doesn't."

"Good. You might as well just put a bullet in your brain." She laughed. "Maybe that's not the best metaphor to use right now. Sorry, put it down to excess adrenaline."

She continued. "I don't think you've given up. You're still fighting – trying to find out what will give you a reason for living, trying to figure out what's the right thing to do."

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him, and kissed her. It lasted a long time. Then she put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.

"OK, that was the right thing to do." He could feel her smile. "You're making progress."

He spoke with his head buried in her hair. "I just found out that all the reasons I thought I went to war were bullshit. I don't want to believe that. I want to believe that there were good reasons for going. I want to believe that there was some glory in what we did."

He pushed her away a little so he could look in her eyes. "I'm giving you fair warning. I'm about as screwed-up as they come. Three good people have just been killed for helping me. I'm in the tall grass watching the Cong kill my buddies about as often as I'm here on the streets of Washington. I can't promise you anything."

She looked at him gravely. "You forgot to mention that real people are really trying to kill you."

"I keep trying to ignore that part."

She reached up and poked him between the eyes. "OK, that's just all wrong. When the war inside your head is worse than the war you're fighting outside your head." She shook her head, her long hair bouncing. "I don't know, Trooper; maybe I'm just a sucker for last stands."

Rick laughed. "That's right. You guys did the Seventh Cavalry in the last time."

"So maybe it's time to reconsider which side is really worth fighting on." She gave him a quick kiss, turned, and began walking up the tunnel again. "Come on. I'm assuming you have a plan for getting out of here."

He followed. "Not as much a plan as a logical guess. I'm guessing that they've already built the next vertical shaft – there is a construction site up on Seventh Street."

"Oh, so we're looking for a light at the end of the tunnel?"

"You mean like that?" Rick pointed at the blue color of daylight ahead.

"Beats a train coming at you."

"I doubt that. Even I don't have two trains coming at me in a single week."

She shot him a questioning look.

"I'll explain later."

The construction debris got worse as they approached the access shaft, and sandwich wrappers and milkshake cups were piled on all sides. Clearly, this was where the Metro workers ate lunch.

One of the piles moved. Three rats shot from it, scurrying off in different directions.

Rick jumped. "Damn it!"

"Scared of a few rats?"

"I'd like to think it's more about sudden movements," Rick said. "I knew there were rats down here. One afternoon, I stood at the corner of Connecticut and K and counted over twenty just down in that section of the Metro alone."

"Counting rats. Now there's my idea of a fun afternoon."

He looked at her, shook his head, and took the lead as they approached the light coming down the shaft. He slowed and moved to the side before he reached it, trying not to appear in the obvious spot if someone were looking down with a rifle.

After a cautious observation, he couldn't see anyone waiting at the top. There was a construction elevator bolted to one side, a red-painted steel cage that slid up and down on a vertical rail. There were only two buttons – up and down. Once they headed to the top, there would be no way to stop and reverse if there was trouble.

Rick put an arm in front of Eve, blocking her from getting in. "Maybe I should go up first in case someone's waiting."

"And leave me with the rats? Not on your life." She pushed his arm away and slid the steel mesh door open. "
Vamanos
, cowboy."

CHAPTER 20

 

There was no one at the top of the shaft. The elevator emerged into a jumble of construction machinery, office trailers, and supplies surrounded by a solid green-painted wooden wall. The gate was padlocked, but that gave way to Rick's piece of rebar, and they quickly walked outside and pushed the plywood door closed.

Rick tossed the rebar over the wall with a bit of regret, but it would attract attention – no matter how much safer it made him feel to hold even this most basic of weapons.

"What's your plan, now, Yellowhair?"

He grinned. "Custer jokes are going to get old, you know."

"Haven't yet." She took his arm and shoved him into a walk. "Let's go. We should at least look like a normal couple while you detail your brilliant plan. Once again, I'm assuming you have one."

They began to stroll through the evening quiet of a weekend on Capitol Hill. Rick looked around. "We need somewhere to sit down and think. Doesn't Dina live up here somewhere?"

Eve had Dina's number and called her from a pay phone next to a bar called "Mr Henry's". Rick looked at the upcoming events and saw that Roberta Flack would be playing tonight. Then he remembered Sam telling him that Flack had been playing there every night for years and seemed to have no intention of leaving.

Eve hung up. "I told her we were in trouble and needed to get off the street. Dina said to meet her outside this bar around the corner on 8th Street."

Rick frowned. "Why outside?"

"I have no idea, but she was very specific. Let's assume she has a good reason."

Rick shook his head but didn't argue as they walked down Pennsylvania Avenue and turned right on 8th Street. On both sides of the broad street were storefronts, mostly garish bars and nightclubs mixed in with a Chinese laundry and a couple of corner stores with heavy chain-link on their windows. The neon lights and colored bulbs along the street were all lit and flashing even in the bright daylight.

Rick noticed that one place they passed was advertising a "Mr Miss America Contest."

Eve pulled him to a stop. Rick looked at the storefront in front of them. It was painted green with no windows, no sign, and no indication of what it was or if it was even open. "Are we at the right place?"

"It doesn't look like it, but this is the street number Dina gave me." Eve looked up the street. "OK, there she is."

Dina, in a bright red coat and one of her signature hats, swept them through the green door in a whirl of deliberately meaningless chatter. It was, in fact, a bar, dimly lit with a long polished oak-and-copper counter on the left, tables on the right, and two pool tables at the back. Rick realized that, except for the bartender, everyone in the bar was a woman and, from the glances being shot his way, not particularly friendly.

"Is this a gay bar?" he asked.

"A lesbian bar, to be precise." Dina shoved them toward a table in the rear. "I couldn't think of anyplace someone would be less likely to look for you, and I'm known here. No one will talk. Hell, no one ever talks. We've all got too much to lose."

She waved, hugged, and kissed her way through the small crowd, and by the time they sat down, the pool games had restarted and the noise level had risen back to normal bar chatter.