“Fuck you, pig,” Pare said. “You can stuff your orders where the sun don’t shine.” The fucker had the nerve. As though a career of chasing bums around and booking whores gave him the right to bark orders at a war-tested marine. But he had forgotten about the goddamn Lietbarsky. Who presently bristled. You could see it right through the suit.
“Those aren’t his orders, I’m guessing,” the Polack hissed out of his helmet. “Sono will be sure to hear about your attitude when he gets back. I’ll tell him you’re bored with being an ex-mil. That you’d rather be a regular mil again, than follow Command’s orders. I hear they need people out there in the sands.”
That’s why everyone hated ex-cops. Sure, pure-breds were crazy, but at least you could talk to them. Cops, though, cops were rats. To a man. Although Pare didn’t buy the active duty threat for one second, he knew there would be trouble enough without it. He would get back at Lietbarsky for this. Before long.
“They’ll find you buried in the sand somewhere one of these days,” he spat back. “Come on, then. If you’re so anxious to help your pig friend, then let’s go get the fucker he brought. I am sure as fuck not hauling him out alone.”
He went inside. Lietbarsky, triumphantly, followed.
“Who the hell is he?” Lietbarsky asked the other ex-cop, as Pare made his way towards the white couch and an unconscious, taped-up, heavy-set guy in a wrinkled black suit.
“Shit if I know. Tried to escape the place on the train. Stole something, supposedly.”
“What’d he steal?”
“That case over there.”
“What’s in the case?”
“Hey!” Pare called. “Discuss it over a Boston Cream later. I’m not here to listen to your gossip.”
He reached the body now and was about to pass it, so that he could come around from the shoulders, but suddenly halted. The impending revenge on the ratting ex-cop evaporated from his mind. He knew the guy on the couch! Not the name, but he knew his face from the racks. An ex-cop, too. A guard. And both of the train guys were now behind them. He glanced over sideways out of his visor. He should have left Lietbarsky with the “Doc” outside.
At the same time Lietbarsky came up beside him. He would recognize a fellow pig for sure.
“Get up,” Lietbarsky said and kicked the guy’s foot.
The bastard is not without brains, Pare thought, sweating. Lietbarsky meanwhile, tossed the PM on his back and bent over the prone guard, turning his face away from the intruders and working his right hand towards the sidearm on his hip. “Get up and walk. No one wants to carry you.”
Cops might not be known for their bravery, but it seemed Lietbarsky was pissed. The scum dared to play him on the sacred ex-pig comradeship. It occurred to Pare that he was about to do some kind of a spin move out of a police drama. He wouldn’t mourn, and the Polack was between him and the pair of strangers, but the distance was too small. There was no place for maneuvering. No cover. Fuck, he thought. The brokenhearted pig is going to get us both killed.
“All right, let’s get the fucker up,” he said meanwhile, glancing casually to his left. There was another door within reach. If he could get it open, get out on the platform… “Hold up. Let me open this bitch up. No point dragging him all through the train.” Lietbarsky nodded, and Pare raised his hand to open the door.
“Another move from either of you, you’re both dead,” a voice said. Silently, Pare turned his head towards the two guns that were now pointing at him.
Lietbarsky, back still turned, started straightening casually, chuckling, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Shit, he’s going to do it, Pare thought desperately. You can’t! his mind screamed. You can’t, they got us made!
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Don’t do it!” I screamed at the guard who kept turning. Paul had him. The gun in my wooden hands was trained at the shoulder area of the one by the door. I screamed again, but he did it anyway. Changing pace suddenly, he whirled around and dropped to one knee. I saw his gun rising, heard Paul shout and the thunder of a submachine gun being discharged.
From his spot on the floor the guard was thrown four yards back to crash helmet first inside the cabin. I felt heat on my neck, like when a careless make-up girl touches you with a curler. A dizzying thought came: I’m hit! The gun in my hand acquired the mass of Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. It occurred to me suddenly that I’d forgotten about the other guard and I almost shot at his white suit out of horror. But I didn’t. The suit was still there, a voice in my head reminded me. He hadn’t moved.
“Don’t move!” Paul screamed at the same time. And immediately followed with, “On the floor! Face down! Drop your weapon!”
To me it sounded vaguely familiar. Somehow the guard deciphered it and went down. Paul rushed forward. Kicking the two guns away, he spun around to face me. The third gun — the one in his hands — trembled.
“What now?” he yelled. “What do I do with him?”
I realized two things then. First, that my wound was not serious. And second, that Paul expected me to tell him to kill the disarmed guard. He had just killed his first human being. Now he waited for me to tell him to kill another one.
Gingerly, I walked up to them.
“Take off your suit,” I told the guard. To Paul I said, “Get the tape.”
“All right,” Paul said and nodded. “All right,” and nodded again. Finally, as though he was Tin Man working against a magnetic field, he went to get the tape.
Rising to his knees, the guard took off his helmet and unzipped the jacket. He did it sullenly, without looking at me. Just like the Waukegan guard he was bald and wide.
“Pants too?” he asked the air in front of him.
“Yes, hurry up.”
Paul returned with the tape. His helmet was also off. His blond hair was stuck to his forehead. Below it, his face was red. The guard stood up and stepped out of his pants.
We taped him up like the other one, and put him on the couch across the aisle. Before placing a piece of tape over his lips, I asked him about the door. He said nothing on the subject. I reminded him we were going through a lot of trouble not to shoot him, and the least he could do in return is be helpful. He disagreed. I let the matter drop. I wasn’t really going to shoot him, and I saw no other way to persuade him. I thought his badge would probably open the door.
As I was changing into the white suit, the Waukegan guard opened his eyes. He began to make noise and struggle to sit up.
“Shut up,” Paul told him, giving his shin a gentle kick. “Or you’ll be sleeping again.” The guard gave us, especially me, a hateful look, but calmed down.
Soon we were ready. I slung the submachine gun across my back.
“We’ll send them back towards Waukegan,” I said.
“Yeah, it should give us a good twenty minutes,” Paul agreed. The red was gone from his face now. Completely. He eyed the cabin.
“You stay here and hold the doors open,” I told him. “I’ll do the controls.”
He nodded and peered intently outside the door at the empty station. I went to the cabin, where the corpse of the guard lay on its side. What gave it away was the blood. Or the obvious absence thereof. The presumably dead guard, at whom I, at first, attempted to slant only a fleeting glance, revealed none of it. Which led me to squat beside him to get a closer look. There were four bullet marks on his jacket, but none of the bullets had penetrated it. Carefully, I lifted his helmet and poked his neck in several places before finally locating what I searched for. Gentle, rhythmical, almost tickling pushing against the skin of my fingers. He had a pulse! For a moment I was terrified. Having discovered the guard alive, I expected him to suddenly come to and grab me. When he did not, I turned to Paul, who had been watching apprehensively.