Brian Freeman - Marathon

Light on. Light off.

Maggie ducked and jumped. The gun exploded over her head, deafening in the enclosed space. She could feel the burning passage of the bullet grazing her hair. She hit Ralston low, ramming his thighs, bringing both of them down. Another bullet fired, this one wild, and it banged against a metal pipe, throwing off fragments that shattered the single lightbulb and bathed the subbasement in total darkness.

She heard Ralston getting up. She crawled away, just in time, as he fired blindly. And then another shot. And another. And another, raking the underground. Nearby, she heard a puff of breath from Travis, like a whimper of surprise. He collapsed, like dead weight falling, and never made another sound. Maggie crawled faster. Nails on the floor cut her hands. Dirt and dust filled her face. She bumped against something heavy and metal and realized it was one of the old filing cabinets. She squeezed herself behind it, her back against the stone wall, and she pulled her own gun out of her holster.

The world was black.

She heard footsteps. Boots crunching on rock.

Ralston was coming for her.

Khan was sure that everyone was looking at him as he got off the service elevator and marched through the JJ Astor kitchen. The cooks. The dishwashers. The waiters. Someone on the hotel staff would realize he was a stranger, and they would shout at him and block his path. They’d stare into his eyes and recognize him and tackle him to the ground.

Instead, in the tumult of lunch service, no one paid attention to him. People shouted orders. Meat sizzled on the flat-top grill. Dishes clattered. He crossed the kitchen and pushed through the swinging door into a curving hallway that led past the guest elevator, the hostess desk, and the bar. The tables of the restaurant were in front of him, winding in a circle around the building, overlooking Duluth, the lake, and the northern wilderness. His eyes hunted for Dawn Basch, but he didn’t see her in the outer ring of booths that was visible from where he was.

Behind him, a waiter flew through the swinging door, nearly colliding into his back with a full tray of food. The man whispered in annoyance, “Out of the way, you fool! Don’t stand there!”

Khan mumbled an apology and let him pass. He spotted a pitcher of water on a tray near him and grabbed it. He walked slowly around the circle, studying each person at each table, searching for Basch. He pasted a smile onto his face. He tried to swallow down his terror, and he was sure that the smell of his sweat trailed after him. Some people asked for water. His hand shook as he filled their glasses.

Where was she?

“Are you all right, young man?” an elderly woman asked. She was at a table with a teenage girl, and they were both eating shrimp salads. The older woman had a sweet, puzzled smile.

Khan blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, you’ve been standing there for a minute, not moving. I wanted to make sure that nothing was wrong.”

“Oh. Oh, no. Sorry. Do you want some water, ma’am?”

The woman pointed at her glass, which was full to the rim, and the tablecloth underneath it was wet. “You already filled it.”

“Yes, I’m very sorry.”

The teenager at the table watched him as if he were under a microscope. She had her phone in her hand. Her eyes darted from the screen to his face and then back to the screen. Khan felt his legs begin to cave beneath him. He took a step, tripped, and took another step. He waited for the shout from the girl behind him. That’s the man! That’s the terrorist! Get him!

She didn’t say anything. Maybe he was safe.

Khan walked a little farther, and then he took a risk and glanced over his shoulder. The girl was still staring at him. Her eyes glittered. As he watched, she leaned forward and whispered something to the old woman across from her, and she turned around, too, her face pale. They were both staring at him now.

He went faster, although his legs barely supported him. He studied each table. Dawn Basch wasn’t there. Maybe she’d left. Beneath his feet, the slight motion unsettled his stomach. The chatter in the restaurant sounded like a thousand annoying birds in his ears. He couldn’t stop blinking. The gun behind his belt ground like a screw into his spine.

“Hey, how about some water?”

Khan looked down. A man in a suit held up his empty glass and stared at him impatiently.

“Yes. Sorry.”

He tried to fill the glass, but his hand shook violently. Water went everywhere. The man cursed at him, and Khan apologized, but his eyes were drawn back to the table behind him. The older woman and the teenage girl were talking to a manager now and pointing around the circle. Pointing at him.

Khan left the pitcher of water on the table. The man protested loudly, but Khan walked away, fast. He felt eyes following him. When he took a look back, he saw the manager, a large man with a white shirt and a tie, heading his way. Their eyes met, and the man called out across the restaurant.

“Excuse me!”

Khan turned away. He was halfway around the circle now. The manager’s voice grew louder behind him.

“Excuse me! You!”

Khan put his head down and charged forward. They would all know who he was soon. They’d be coming for him. He passed more tables and booths. More diners. More strangers. He saw the city spread out beyond the windows.

And there she was.

Dawn Basch.

Her head was down as she ate her lunch. Her fingers, tipped with long red fingernails, tapped the screen of her phone. He knew what she was doing. Spreading hate. Spreading poison. Getting people killed. She didn’t look up as he drew closer. He was nothing to her. He didn’t matter at all.

All he had to do was pull his gun and fire. Find the courage. Avenge the murders of his wife and child. After that, nothing else mattered. What happened to him didn’t matter. Let the police kill him, too, and he would be free.

Khan reached behind his belt. His fingers closed around the butt of the gun.

Then he heard a woman’s voice.

He’d heard that same voice once before, in the cemetery, in the midst of the darkness, rain, and bullets.

“ Rashid! ”

“I’m in the restaurant,” Gayle Durkin told Stride through the Bluetooth transmitter in her ear. “Where are you?”

Stride replied into her phone, “I’m in the elevator now. I’m thirty seconds away. Any sign of Basch or Rashid?”

“Not yet.”

“I haven’t been able to reach Basch. She doesn’t know about the threat.”

“Understood.”

Gayle began a slow rotation around the restaurant. Her hand was in the purse that was slung around her shoulder, and inside the purse, she had a firm grip on a Glock. She smiled at each table. No one was familiar. No one was a threat.

A waitress passed her, heading in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. Gayle stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She grabbed her phone and opened up a driver’s license photo of Rashid. “Have you seen this man anywhere in the hotel today?”

The waitress, a pretty Muslim girl, shook her head. “No, sorry.”

“What about Dawn Basch?”

The girl rolled her eyes, and her mouth pinched into a frown. “Oh yes, she’s here. Keep going — she’s at a booth on the other side.”

“Thank you.”

Gayle studied the tables beyond the curve. She couldn’t see Basch yet. She kept walking. The tower had a faint sway. Out the window, she saw the city where she and Ron had grown up. They’d eaten here once, years earlier. The four of them, Mom, Dad, Gayle, Ron. It was their first experience at a revolving restaurant. Ron, who was probably no more than ten, got sick. She couldn’t even remember why they were there or what they were celebrating. Mom’s birthday, probably. That was in January, and she could still remember the snow flying past the high windows like a flight of angels.