David Baldacci - The Innocent

The bus pulled off with a grinding of gears and the driver headed out onto the surface street that he would take to the interstate and then on to New York. There were few cars at this hour. The buildings were dark. The city would awake in a few hours. D.C. was not like New York in that regard. It did sleep. But it rose early.

Robie’s gaze settled back on the man. He was Robie’s size and age. He had no bag. He was dressed in black slacks, gray jacket. Robie’s gaze went to the man’s hands. They were gloved. Robie looked down at his own gloved hands and then gazed outside. It was not that cold. He saw the man engage the lever to slide his seat back a bit. He settled in.

But Robie’s instincts told him it wouldn’t be for long.

This man was not on the bus simply to travel to New York.

Professional killers were a unique lot.

Robie thought this as the bus motored along. The vehicle’s suspension was for shit and thus the ride was too. They would have to endure two hundred miles of this, but Robie was not focused on that. He stared through the gap, watching, waiting.

When you were on a mission you looked for things that other people would never focus on. Like entry and exit points. Always have at least two of each. Gunsight angles, positions from which others can strike back at you. Sizing up opponents without seeming to do so. Trying to ferret out intent by reading body cues alone. Never let anyone notice you noticing him.

Robie was undertaking all of these tasks right now. And it was totally unconnected with his plight. He had people after him, clearly. But just as clearly the girl had someone after her. And Robie now knew that he was not the only professional killer on board this bus tonight.

He was looking at the second one.

He slipped the Glock from his pocket.

The girl was reading. Robie couldn’t see what, but it was a paperback. She was intent on this, oblivious to all other things. That was not good. Young people made easy targets for predators. Young people were glued to their phone screens, thumbs ramming keys, firing off messages of importance, like Facebook status, the color of their underwear that day, girl problems, hair problems, sport stats, where the next party was. They also always had earbuds in. With the music roaring, they could hear nothing until the lion struck. Then it was too late.

Easy prey. And they didn’t even know it.

Robie lined up his shot between the seat gap.

The other man leaned forward in his seat.

They had been traveling for only a few minutes. They were passing through an even more derelict part of the city.

There was no one sitting next to the girl in the window seat. There was no one across the aisle from her. The closest person to her was an old woman who had already fallen asleep. Most in the bus had settled down to sleep, though they’d barely gone a half mile as yet.

Robie knew how he would do it. Head and neck. Pull right, pull left, the same method the U.S. Marines teach. Because the target was a child, no weapon would be required. No loss of blood either. Most people died silently. There was no melodramatic dying sequence. Folks just stopped breathing, gurgled, twitched, and then went quietly. People close by were clueless. But then most people were clueless.

The man tensed.

The girl shifted her book a bit, letting the wash from the overhead light hit the page more fully.

Robie eased forward. He checked his gun. The suppressor can was spun on as tight as it would go. But in the close confines of the bus there was no such thing as a silenced gun. He would worry about explanations later. He had watched two people tonight lose their lives, one a little boy. He did not intend to make it three.

The man set his weight on the balls of his feet. He lifted his hands, positioned them in a certain way.

Pull-pull, thought Robie. Head left, neck right. Snap.

Pull-pull.

Dead girl.

But not tonight.

Robie could read a lot from a little. But what happened next was not something that he had anticipated at all.

The man screamed.

Robie would have too, since pepper spray stung like hell when it hit the eyes.

The girl was still gripping her paperback, keeping her current page. She had not even turned in her seat. She had just fired the spray backward over her head, nailing her attacker directly in the face.

However, the man was still moving forward, even as he screamed and clawed at his eyes with one of his hands. The other hand found purchase on the girl’s neck at about the time Robie’s pistol collided with the man’s skull, sending him crashing down to the floor of the bus.

The girl looked around at Robie as most of the other passengers, awakened now, stared at them. Then their gazes drifted to the fallen man. One old woman wearing a thick yellow robe started screaming. The driver stopped the bus, slammed it in park, turned to look at Robie standing there, and yelled, “Hey!”

The tone and the stare indicated to Robie that the driver thought he was the source of the problem. The driver, a heavyset black man of about fifty, rose and started down the aisle.

When he saw Robie’s gun, he stopped and put his hands in front of him.

The same old woman screamed and clutched at her robe.

“What the hell do you want?” exclaimed the driver to Robie.

Robie looked down at the unconscious man. “He was attacking the girl. I stopped him.”

He looked at the girl for support. She said nothing.

“Would you like to tell them?” Robie prompted.

She said nothing.

“He was trying to kill you. You nailed him with pepper spray.”

Robie reached over, and before she could stop him he’d ripped the canister from her hand and held it up.

“Pepper spray,” he said in a confirming tone.

The other passengers’ attention now turned to the girl.

She looked back at them, unfazed by their scrutiny.

“What’s going on?” asked the driver.

Robie said, “The guy was attacking the girl. She pepper-sprayed him and I finished him off when he didn’t back down.”

“And why do you have a gun?” asked the driver.

“I’ve got a permit for it.”

In the distance Robie heard sirens.

Was it for the two bodies back at the building?

The man on the floor groaned and started to stir. Robie put a foot on his back. “Stay down,” he ordered. He looked back at the driver. “You better call the cops.” He turned to the girl. “You have a problem with that?”

In response the girl rose, grabbed her backpack from the overhead bay, slipped it over her shoulders, and walked down the aisle toward the driver.

The driver put up his hands again. “You can’t leave, miss.”

She drew something from her jacket and held it in front of the man. From where he was standing behind the girl Robie was blocked from seeing what it was. The driver immediately retreated, looking terrified. The old woman screamed again.

Robie knelt down and used the fallen man’s belt to efficiently tie his hands and ankles together behind his back, completely immobilizing him. Then he followed the girl down the aisle. As he passed the driver he said, “Call the cops.”

“Who are you?” the driver called after Robie.

Robie didn’t answer, because he could hardly tell the man the truth.

The girl had worked the lever to open the bus door and stepped off.

Robie caught up to her as she reached the street.

“What did you show him?” he asked.

She turned and held up the grenade.

Robie didn’t blink. “It’s plastic.”

“Well, he didn’t seem to know that.”

Those were the first words she had spoken. Her voice was lower than Robie would have expected. More grown-up. They moved away from the bus.