Andrew Grant - Even

“Need a ride?” the guy with the bag said as Taylor’s door closed behind us.

“Please,” I said. “Just a couple of blocks. Saves me finding a cab. Only thing is, I don’t get on too well with elevators. Any chance we could take the stairs?”

“Twenty-one floors?”

“Come on. It is down, all the way. And I’ll even carry your bag.”

The guy sighed and looked back at his twin.

“OK,” he said, finally. “We’ll walk. But don’t touch my stuff.”

The door to the stairs was to our right, next to the third elevator. I was nearest so I moved across and gave it a push. It opened more easily than I’d expected. The self-closer was broken. That was a piece of luck. It meant I could bring the timetable forward a little. I didn’t want Taylor leaving before I could get back and see him again.

“After you,” I said, moving aside to let the guy with the bag go first. I stepped through immediately after him and took hold of the handle on the other side. I paused. Then I heaved the door back toward its frame, twisting my body and shifting my weight like a hammer thrower.

My timing was just right. The steel skin of the heavy fire door crushed the second guy’s nose like it was made of paper and only slowed down when it connected with his jaw. The impact sent him staggering backward and he went down in a sprawling heap like he’d fallen twenty feet off a building and landed on his face.

The guy with the bag heard the thud. He stopped, four feet in front of me, right at the top of the stairs. He started to turn. I waited until he was facing me. Then I launched myself forward, swinging my back leg up and driving the ball of my foot into the base of his rib cage like a battering ram. He fell back, gasping for air, hopelessly off balance. His arms were flailing, desperate for anything to grab onto. His right hand glanced off the smooth wall. His left grazed the metal banister rail, scrabbling for grip, but he just couldn’t hang on. Both arms ended up stretched out behind him. That was just as well. They took some of the sting out of his fall. But even so, the back of his head caught the sharp edges of four, five, six bare concrete steps before he came to rest.

I followed him down, retrieved his bag, and checked inside. There were three things. A clear, heavy-gauge plastic sheet, folded into a square. A black body bag, standard U.S. Army issue, rolled up. And a metal case containing a syringe. It was filled with some kind of clear liquid. I put the syringe case in my pocket, replaced everything else, and slung the bag over my shoulder. Then I took hold of the guy’s hands, swung him over the same shoulder, and carried him up to the landing.

Next I went to check on the second guy. He’d rolled onto his front and was trying to drag himself across the carpet toward Taylor’s apartment, groaning softly each time he moved. He wasn’t aware I’d come back, so I let him get within touching distance of the wall before rolling him onto his side and slamming the heel of my hand into his temple. That put an end to his crawling, so I eased him into a sitting position and shuffled him over until his head and shoulders were against Taylor’s door and his backside was twelve inches out from its lower edge. Then I fetched the bag guy. I lugged his unconscious body through the lobby and lowered it down onto the second guy’s lap. They ended up back against chest, like one was sitting on the other’s knee. The bag guy’s head lolled sideways, so I had to roll it around onto the second guy’s shoulder. His oozing blood left a blotchy stain on the white surface of the door, but I wasn’t too worried. I was going to give Taylor more to think about than smudged paint.

I took the syringe out of its case, stepped to the side, and reached across to the doorbell. It was set into the center of the door, above Taylor’s printed name card and below the lens of a security peephole. I kept my finger on the button for a full two seconds. The sound was harsh and mechanical, like the old-fashioned windup kind. Not what I’d expected at all. There was silence for ten seconds. Then a light pair of feet started down the spiral stairs. They came nearer, scurrying across the metal floor like a couple of mice. And stopped.

“Who’s there?” Taylor said.

“Your cleaners,” I said. “They forgot to do upstairs. Thought they better come back.”

Taylor opened the door. That was a mistake. The bodies fell backward, deflecting off his legs as gravity pulled them to the floor. I heard a sharp intake of breath, and two near simultaneous thumps as their skulls hit the checkered tile. I gave Taylor a couple of moments to register what had happened. Then I stepped into view.

“I don’t know what your boy had in here,” I said, holding up the syringe. “But if you don’t want it pumped straight in your heart, get down on the ground. Hands behind your head. Lace your fingers. Do not look at me. Do not move.”

Taylor hit the floor as if his legs had been swept from under him. I put the syringe back in its case, slipped it into my pocket, and stepped in through the doorway. The bodies were in the way so I hauled them to the side and shut the door. I made sure it had latched, then felt in my pocket for the sheaf of cable ties I’d taken from Lesley’s. I isolated four. My fingers worked them free. I used two to bind the identical guys’ wrists. The other two secured them to the frame of the spiral staircase. Then I turned back to face their whimpering boss.

“Good, so far,” I said. “Now, on your feet.”

“Where are we going?” he said.

“Upstairs.”

“Why?”

“There’s nothing to see down here. And we need somewhere private. We have something to talk about.”

Taylor went up the staircase ahead of me, hesitantly, one hand on the rail. I kept my distance, just in case, but he didn’t try anything. He just labored his way to the top, took a couple more steps, and then waited for instructions. I directed him to the dining end of the room and put him on the violet chair. That was in the middle of the long side, with its back to the sofas. I sat opposite, on the yellow chair, giving him only me and the blank white wall to look at.

“Take a minute to think,” I said. “You’ve made some mistakes, this morning. Serious mistakes. So now you have to choose. Either you put them right, or you pay the price. And it’s only fair to warn you. The price is going to be high.”

“How do I put them right?” he said.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I did.”

I took out the wad of photos, pulled out the one showing the organ containers in the truck, and put it down on the table.

“So why did you choke when you saw this, the first time?” I said.

“I didn’t choke. I just took a second to recognize it,” he said.

“I’m going to ask you one more question. Before Tungsten, were you in the army?”

“Yes.”

“Special Forces?”

“No.”

“Airborne?”

“No.”

“Infantry?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I’m getting the feeling you weren’t much of a fighting soldier. Not much combat experience. Is that fair?”

“Modern armies stand or fall on their staffwork. Don’t belittle it.”

“I’m not. I’m just thinking, you saw those guys downstairs? The one guy’s face? The back of the other guy’s skull? Now look at these.”

I held up my palms, then the back of my hands.

“If I can do that to those guys, on my own, without getting a single scratch, what’s going to happen to you if you don’t give me what I want?”

Taylor stared down at the tabletop. But the only thing on it was his reflection, and that didn’t offer much comfort.

“So, here’s your choice. Talk to me about this,” I said, tapping the photograph. “Or end up in this.”