“Let’s just call it a day, fellows. You made your point. He’s banged up pretty bad.”
“Yeah, but you’re not.”
“Just trying to make the peace.” Stone looked at the other passengers, many of whom were elderly. “You’ve scared everybody pretty bad.”
“You think we give a shit?” He pointed at Stone. “Now, what you’re gonna do, old man, is say you’re sorry for bothering us and you’re gonna turn yourself around and go sit down if you know what’s good for you. Otherwise I’m gonna have to kick your ass too. Hell, I just might do it anyway ’cause I feel like it. How ’bout that?”
It had been a long day and Stone was already pissed that he couldn’t even get ten minutes of sleep, so he said, “Just you? Or with your two buddies there helping?”
The kid smiled. “Oh, just me, granddad. But I tell you what, just so’s my kicking your ass won’t be over too fast, I’ll only use one hand.” He gave a little jab and Stone darted his head out of the way.
“Oh, looky here, pops can dance. You a good dancer, pops?” The kid suddenly kicked at Stone, who seized the leg and held on to it with an iron grip.
Beefy’s face now turned scarlet as he hopped around on one leg. “Let me go, or I’m gonna hurt you bad. Let me go!”
“You get one more chance,” Stone said.
The kid swung a fist out. And missed.
Stone’s elbow to the side of his head didn’t. Neither did the blow to the nose, with the kid’s bone breaking on impact. The punk crumpled to the floor moaning and twitching.
The other two dropped the quarterback and started forward. One fell like he’d been axe-cleaved when Stone’s foot smashed his crotch and then collided with his head. The other never saw the fist slam into his gut and then shoot up and crush his chin. He ended up on the floor of the train car next to his friends, holding his stomach and his face.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Stone turned to see the rotund conductor racing down the aisle, walkie-talkie and ticket puncher in hand and his Amtrak cap bouncing on his head.
Before Stone could say anything one of the punks he’d laid out yelled, “He attacked us.”
The other passengers immediately started talking, telling their version of what had happened, but it all came out pretty garbled.
The harried train conductor looked over the mess of bodies on the floor, then turned to Stone and said, “You’re the only one left standing. So did you hit these men?”
“After they attacked me. They said they caught that one cheating at cards,” Stone said, pointing to the “glory days” kid who sat on the floor holding his bloody nose. “They wouldn’t stop pounding the crap out of him and then they came after me.” He pointed to the crowded floor. “You can see it didn’t turn out the way they probably intended.”
“Okay, let me see some ID,” the conductor said.
“What about their IDs? I’m just the Good Samaritan. Ask any of these folks.”
“That may well be. But I’m starting with you and I’ll work my way through all of them. How’s that for a plan?”
Stone didn’t want to give the man his ID, because he knew if he did it would end up in an official record somewhere that the folks coming for him might be able to find and use. Besides it was a fake ID and wouldn’t pass muster under a database check.
“Why don’t you start and end with them while I just take my seat? I wasn’t really part of any of this.”
“Either give me some ID or I radio ahead for the cops who’ll be waiting at the next stop.” He pointed to the young men. “You too.”
The quarterback gave a groan and spit up some blood.
“He needs some medical attention,” Stone said quickly. He knelt next to the young man and put a hand on his shoulder, only to have it thrown off.
“I don’t need any damn help from the likes of you!”
Stone rose and said to the conductor, “I think we need to call in a doctor.”
“If he wants medical attention, we’ll get it, but I’m still waiting for your ID, sir,” the Amtrak man said stubbornly.
He just isn’t going to give up, is he?
“I’m getting off this damn train at the next stop,” said the quarterback. He rose on shaky legs.
“That’s fine. You can all get off as far as I’m concerned,” the conductor said.
“What is the next stop?” said Stone.
The man told him. “And you either show me some ID or I radio for the police.”
Stone thought for a moment. “How about I get off the train at the next stop too?”
“Works for me,” said the conductor, staring at him intently. Stone did not like the look on the man’s face; it was full of suspicion.
The conductor pointed at the young men lying on the floor. “Now all you get back in your damn seats and stay there or else you’re going to jail, and I mean what I say.”
The beefy kid Stone had pounded first wailed, “What if I want to press charges against this son of a bitch?” He pointed at Stone.
The conductor said, “Fine, and then that feller”—he pointed at the quarterback—“can press charges against you. And this man,” he added, indicating Stone, “can press charges against you too and your buddies, because what I’m hearing from all the other passengers is that you came after him first. So what’s it gonna be, mister bloody nose?”
Beefy’s cheeks quivered. “Screw it, just forget it.”
“Smartest thing to come out of your mouth yet. And next time you want to brawl just make sure it’s not on my train. You don’t want to mess with Amtrak, sonny boy.” The conductor turned and stalked off.
Stone retook his seat, inwardly fuming. Why the hell had he gotten involved? Now he’d lost his ride.
The woman next to him leaned over and said, “You sure were brave to do what you did. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“Boy Scouts,” Stone said absently.
Her eyes widened. “Boy Scouts? You’re kidding?”
“The Scouts were a lot tougher in my day, ma’am.”
But then he grinned weakly and she laughed. “That was a good one,” she said.
Stone stopped smiling.
Not really. Because now I’m screwed.
CHAPTER 7
CALEB SHAW and Reuben Rhodes had been depressed before Alex Ford came to Caleb’s high-rise condo and dropped the latest news on them. Now their attitudes sank right through the floor.
Caleb poured himself a sherry and started popping greasy potato chips in his mouth as fast as possible, a longtime nervous habit of his, and he was the possessor of many. “How much more tragedy are we expected to endure?” he exclaimed.
Reuben said, “So he killed Simpson and Gray?”
“He didn’t come right out and say it in the letter, but that looks to be the case,” Alex said.
“Pricks deserved it,” Reuben said staunchly.
“It was still murder, Reuben,” Alex pointed out.
“And look what they did to him. Anybody get one day in jail for that? Hell no.”
Alex looked ready to debate the point as he had with Annabelle but then seemed to think better of it.
“Where do you believe he is?” asked Caleb.
“Running,” answered Alex. “And don’t be surprised if the FBI shows up on your doorstep asking questions.”
“If they do, I don’t know nothing,” Reuben stated firmly.
“Be careful on that score,” Alex warned. “A perjury charge can get you a few years in a federal lockup.”
“I’m not saying anything that’ll get these bastards caught up with Oliver, Alex. And I’d expect you to do the same.”
“My situation is a little different,” Alex said defensively.
“Are you Oliver’s friend? Didn’t he save your life?”