The security guards were seven in number now, and the nearest was fifty yards away and coming at him fast. Tom was up and running again.
In the doorway, two men in Day-Glo coveralls tossed bags onto caged low-loader trailers. One saw Tom and stepped into the doorway. Tom fumbled for his ID and yelled, ‘NTSB,’ but was not surprised when the man showed no sign of bowing to officialdom. He blocked Tom, who lashed out – his badge still in his fist – and opened the man’s cheek.
‘Shit!’ The guy clapped one hand to his face, but held onto him with the other, and Tom ripped out of his leather jacket, shook it loose from his arms, and kept going.
Hangar One, Hangar Two … He could hear the wail of Airport Police sirens. He ran into Hangar Two, under the wings of a 747, past surprised engineers, ignoring angry shouts, dodged left and crashed through a side door, across the strip of asphalt, and through the matching door into Hangar Three.
Hangar Three was darker than Hangar Two, or the LA sunshine. Tom willed his eyes to adjust. He couldn’t hear for the blood in his ears, the sirens, the pounding of his own heart.
No work was going on in here, no plane, no maintenance crew, the only light the little fluorescent strip over the side door he’d just come through.
‘Tom!’
The word was choked off. He turned and saw Halo, Stanley’s arm round his throat, a gun to his head, the smaller man arched against his captor, stumbling, trying to stay upright, blood staining his teeth as he grimaced in pain.
Stanley’s teeth were all white when he smiled. ‘Hello, asshole.’
‘Hi,’ said Tom. He didn’t want to waste any breath. He knew he had a limited supply. He put his hands on his knees, sucking at the air, but keeping his eyes on Halo and half a brain on the clock. He needed to get that flight to DC. Having come this far, he could only trust that Ness wasn’t lying to him, that he would indeed find an incriminating file under seat 15C. All he needed was to miss the flight and have some over-enthusiastic National Airport cleaner find it and put it in a dumpster.
He had no time for this shit. ‘What do you want?’ he said impatiently.
Stanley grinned again. He yanked Halo sideways to remind him of who was in charge and his gun hand disappeared, reappearing seconds later with the bolt. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘Um, is it … a bolt?’
‘The wrong fucking bolt.’
‘A bolt is a bolt is a bolt. Surely.’
Stanley slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Halo’s head. Tom flinched.
‘You think this is funny?
‘No.’
‘You switch the bolt and you think we wouldn’t know? We wouldn’t come back and fuck you up?’
Tom didn’t answer. He’d kinda hoped none of those three things would happen.
But now they had, of course.
He’d thought he was being so clever, giving Halo Lemon’s bolt, letting Stanley and the Weasel think the slightly battered replacement was the real thing when they took it from him. Now it turned out he hadn’t been clever at all, that all he’d done was put Halo in more danger than anyone deserved to be in. He had to put an end to this, fast, before Stanley got any angrier.
‘Where is it, Halo?’
Halo coughed as Stanley choked him again. Then Stanley laughed. ‘You mean this little shit has it? Man! I didn’t even need to use him to get you down here!’
Tom ignored him, looking Halo straight in the eyes. ‘Come on, Halo,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve done your bit.’
‘Yeah, Halo.’ Stanley grinned. ‘Don’t make me shoot you in the head. This is a new shirt.’
Halo struggled to speak. ‘Fuck you and your new shirt. You’re not getting it.’
Tom’s world was whirling. He was desperate to tell Halo that maybe – if Ness had been telling the truth – they didn’t need the bolt now. That they had other evidence, other options; that they no longer had to cling to one solitary lump of metal. Tom was ready to take that chance if it would save Halo. Lenny Munro getting shot was bad enough. But he had to admit that he liked Halo Jackson. The thought of watching as Stanley shot him in the head made the Pride of Maine seem insignificant. But the thought that Ness had put herself in serious danger to get the file to him made him keep it to himself.
‘Chris wouldn’t want you to die for it, Halo. Neither would Vee. Or Katy.’
Tears started to run from Halo’s eyes.
‘Are you fucking crying?’ Stanley laughed again, and Tom wanted to smash his face in.
The anger he felt at Stanley manifested itself in his words to Halo. ‘Fuck the bolt, Halo! Give it up!’
Halo shook his head stubbornly and Stanley jabbed the barrel of the pistol into his kidneys, making him yelp, then shoved him to his knees, holding him up by the scruff of his coveralls, and pressing the gun against his head again.
‘If you shoot him you’ll never find it!’ yelled Tom.
‘But if I shoot you both, who cares?’ smiled Stanley, and – with complete clarity and calm – Tom knew then that they were both dead, whether Stanley got the bolt from them or not.
But he also knew that going along with the quest for the bolt would buy them more time. More life.
And more life seemed a good goal to aim for.
‘Halo, please,’ he said. ‘Just tell him where the bolt is.’
There was a long moment when all Tom could hear was the sound of the police-car sirens winding down somewhere close by. They wouldn’t get here in time: he’d gone through Hangars One and Two first – that was where they’d start.
Halo held up one hand weakly.
