Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

By the time we reached Main Street, it was so late the place was nearly deserted. The click of my heels on the cracked concrete was the only sound as we passed darkened storefronts, shuttered magazine kiosks, and empty bus shelters. We were the only two people riding the long escalator down to the train. Except for the sleepy MTA clerk in the service booth, I saw no one in the subway station, either.

Because Main Street was the end of the line, there was a train already idling on the tracks. We walked the length of the last car and entered the next to the last, both of which were empty. Breathless, we dropped into the plastic orange seats.

“Men like Rafe Chastain may relish a life of adventure on the wild frontier,” Roman said, “but after a night like this, I can’t wait to get back to civilization.”

The announcer’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Number 7 to Manhattan. This train is running express. Express train! First stop Junction Boulevard!”

The doors closed and opened again—something that happens when a passenger tries to board the train at the last minute and gets hung up in the door instead.

“Please let go of the doors in the rear of the train,” the conductor warned.

The doors closed again (all the way this time) and the train rolled into the dark tunnel.

“Wait a minute!” I said. “We’re at the rear of the train, aren’t we?”

Roman saw my alarmed expression and turned pale. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t think our adventure is over yet.”

I rose to my feet. The floor lurched under my heels, and I stumbled to the door at one end of the train car. Through its window I saw Dragon Man in the middle of the last car, walking down the aisle in our direction. His mask was off, and he appeared to be part-Hispanic, part-Asian, with angular features, a shaved head, and the hard, catlike gaze of a predator.

I turned. “Run, Roman!”

“Run? Run where?”

“To the next car!”

I grabbed his wrist and pulled him up the aisle. When we reached the end, I slid aside the heavy steel door. The roar of the tunnel filled the car, along with a whooshing blast of musty underground air.

The Metropolitan Transportation Authority doesn’t like riders crossing between the subway cars. On every line in Manhattan, the doors between the cars are locked. But for some reason—tradition, maybe, or because it’s an elevated train—the doors between the cars on the 7 line are never locked.

That deviation in transit system procedure might just save our lives, I thought, but it wasn’t over yet. Roman and I had to cross a gap between one car and another while the rocking train flew across the ancient track at forty miles per hour. There was plenty of incentive to risk the move. Dragon Man had just entered the car we were about to vacate.

I turned to Roman. “Go!”

The heavy man stepped through the door and over the frightening gap. The thundering rumble was deafening, and the wind whipped through his thick hair as he moved to the door of the next car. He took hold of the latch, muscled the door open, and stepped through.

Now I moved onto the small, open platform, closing the door behind me. Through its Plexiglas window, I saw Dragon Man in the middle of the aisle. He paused to reach into his jacket, pull a gun from his belt, and take off the safety.

I moved quickly to the next car, realizing something awful. Even if we ran full out to the other end of this car, Dragon Man’s bullets would be faster.

“He’s coming!” I yelled to Roman over the roar of the train. “And he’s got a gun. We can’t outrun him. We’ll have to fight!”

I felt the temperature changing and realized the train had emerged from the underground tunnel. A blast of chilly nighttime wind ripped through my hair, and I saw we were racing up an incline to an elevated position, heading for the sprawling auto junkyards of Willets Point.

Dragon Man was stepping out now onto the ledge between the two train cars. Grinning at me, the punk waved the gun in the air, making sure I saw it.

He stepped forward, and I suddenly remembered that scumbag from the White Horse Tavern, the one who’d jammed his motorcycle boot into the back room’s doorway. Only this time, the door in my hand wasn’t flimsy wood, it was heavy steel on a sliding track. I reached up to release the overhead safety latch. As Dragon Man’s foot moved into the car, I slammed the door on the gunman’s instep.

The man’s bellow of surprise and pain was loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the metal wheels on the track. Cursing, the man slammed the butt of his weapon against the window. The Plexiglas cracked but didn’t shatter. He repositioned the gun in his hand.

“He’s going to shoot us through the window!”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “The hell he is!”

The big man yanked the door back open, stepped around it, and with a shriek of pure fury lunged at the gunman, arms flailing like windmills.

Dragon Man’s weapon discharged, but the bullet went wild, ricocheting off the train’s metal framework. Roman kept flailing, and the gun was knocked free. It dropped down between the cars, swallowed up by the night and the ancient tracks.

The train kept rolling, and Roman continued fighting. Dragon Man lunged backward, desperate now to get away, but the door behind him was shut, and Roman kept coming, using his girth to slam the man like an angry bull.

With a string of raging curses, the robber was knocked off his feet. He tumbled over the chain-link guardrail, his screams diminishing in the shadows of the junkyards below. I grabbed the hem of Roman’s safari jacket and pulled with all my might to keep him from following the man over the side.

Panting, the two of us moved back into the car and collapsed on the orange seats. Then we stared speechlessly out the open subway door, watching for long minutes until our train was clear of the rusting graveyard.

Midnight came and went, and the Blend had long since closed its doors to paying customers. But lights still blazed behind the coffee bar and the cozy, caramelized aroma of freshly pulled espressos was still going strong.

Roman Brio balanced on a tall stool, his heavy legs curled under him. Beside him, my laptop was open and connected to the Internet. I stood behind the counter, watching the food writer mainline his third espresso.

“I’ll need another one,” he said, dabbing his lips. Roman set the napkin on the blueberry marble beside the demitasse. I noticed his hand tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of too much caffeine or the aftershock of tonight’s events. Either way, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.

“Maybe you’d like a cappuccino instead,” I suggested. “I have one almost ready to go.”

“No, thanks, Clare. I haven’t lapped warm milk since my nanny force-fed me the stuff in the nursery. Make it a doppio , please. Rapidamente .”

I shrugged and went back to work at the machine. Twenty-five seconds later, the beautiful caramel-colored crema had oozed into the cream-colored cup, and I heard a knock on the front door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette through the beveled-glass window. I handed Roman his freshly pulled shot, stepped around the counter, and unlocked the front door.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Hi, Clare.”

Quinn stared down at me, blew out air. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but it was pretty scary. I could really use a—” Mike pulled me against his chest. I closed my eyes and held on, soaking up his strength. He stroked my hair for a quiet minute, then broke our embrace and held me at arm’s length to look me over.

“Relax. Nothing’s damaged. Not even bruised. You know I can take care of myself.”