End of the Line by Nicky James

 

ONE

Leopold

My lungs burned.

Every muscle in my body ached.

Between the blood roaring in my ears and the steady slap of my oxfords hitting the pavement, I couldn’t tell if they were still following me.

I’d gone six blocks. Maybe seven. I’d lost count and didn’t know Montreal well enough to determine where I was. Hell, I didn’t know what direction I was heading in any longer. Dodging down a few alleys and zigzagging along too many side streets had left me turned around. East, west, north? None of it made sense. None of it computed.

None of it mattered. I had to get away.

The night sky was a haze of light pollution—a dingy orange glow that reflected off the low cloud cover. No stars like back home. No familiar landmarks. Concrete and steel buildings loomed around every corner, and I was lost. Despite the late hour, traffic was constant. A city like this rarely slept. Cars and trucks zipped up and down the busy streets in both directions, oblivious to my turmoil, their exhaust fumes choking the scant amount of oxygen I managed to pull into my starving lungs. I had to slow down. I needed a break, or I’d collapse.

Ducking into the dark alcove of a closed cigar bar, I wedged into the corner, crouching, hugging my knees to my chest until I was as small and inconspicuous as possible. My peacoat was long, so I wrapped it around me like a shield. It was a good thing I’d managed to grab it in my flight.

I pressed a hand to my chest, panting and gasping for breath, the burn relentless. A thick sheen of sweat covered my face and dripped down my temples into my eyes. At least I hoped it was sweat. My heart slammed mercilessly against my ribs, a bruising agony.

Could a person die of a heart attack at twenty-three?

I wet my lips, my mouth parched and throat sticking to itself. Only as my breathing returned to normal did I register how badly I was shaking. Trembling. It was like a mini earthquake had gone off inside me, and it radiated through every limb.

Adrenaline or fear?

Or both?

I held a hand in front of me, watching the steady tremor. It wouldn’t stop no matter how hard I willed it. My vision blurred and teeth chattered when the streetlights caught on the slick coating of blood covering my fingers. The last hour flashed before my eyes, and no matter how hard I tried to evict it from my mind, the images were all too clear.

I made a fist, and when I opened my hand again, my digits stuck together, pulling apart with a sticky snick. My stomach roiled. I heaved and scrambled to my hands and knees, throwing up in the alcove. I couldn’t stop. Violent convulsions shook me to my core as I expelled the Kobe beef and various fruits de mer I’d eaten for dinner hours earlier. When there was nothing left but acid and bile, I sat back on my ass and stared at my hands.

Blood. So much blood. Both hands were slick with it. It seeped into my pores and under my nails, staining my skin.

A long whine escaped my throat, and I rocked back and forth. “What do I do? Oh no. What do I do?”

Crawling to the edge of the alcove, I peeked around the corner in the direction I’d come. There weren’t as many people wandering the streets this late at night, but they weren’t vacant. A man at the corner about two dozen feet away stared at his phone as he waited for the light to change. A soft glow illuminated his face. A woman across the street, dressed in spandex, jogged in place as she waited for the same light. Another man walked his dog farther down the road.

But they weren’t there. My pursuers weren’t in sight. Had I lost them?

I sat back in the corner, my head spinning. What now? I couldn’t go back. If I did…

The blood. Oh god. There was so much blood.

I had to get rid of the blood on my hands. Was it on my clothes?

My chest hitched as I maneuvered to my knees, scanning the front of my wool peacoat. It was black. Blood wouldn’t show on black. But wait, I hadn’t been wearing my coat at the time. I feared what I’d find if I looked underneath.

My trousers were powder-gray and wrinkled from my escape. There were speckles of a dark substance on the upper thighs, and I knew it for what it was. The urge to smooth them down and wipe away the evidence was hard to ignore. I had to wash my hands first, or I’d transfer the mess and make it worse.

Reluctantly, I unbuttoned my coat and peered at the evidence underneath. My silk shirt told a gruesome tale. A smudged handprint covered the area over my heart where he’d grabbed me and tried to stop me from getting away. The left side was soaked through and stuck to my skin.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” With trembling hands, I buttoned my coat, hiding the mess.

I checked around the corner again.

No one.

I had to keep moving. If they found me, I didn’t know what would happen.

I stood on wobbly, tired legs, brushed my shaggy, sun-kissed blond hair off my sweaty brow, then cursed.

“Dammit.”

Had I put blood in my hair? On my face?

I had to find somewhere to clean up. I had to get out of there.

But where would I go? I didn’t have my passport, not that I could fly out of the country without leaving a trail. Eventually, they would check airlines and scour the CCTV coverage surrounding the hotel. They wouldn’t stop until I was located.

I dug my wallet out of my back pocket. If I used a credit or bank card, they would trace them too, wouldn’t they? That was how they did it in the movies. I needed an ATM. I needed as much cash as possible all at once, then I wouldn’t touch the cards again. I would be long gone before they figured out where and when I’d used them last.

From my other pocket, I withdrew my phone. The phone was a problem. A huge problem.

It pained me to go without it. Google Maps would be a lifeline. I didn’t know the city. Hell, I didn’t know the country. If it weren’t two o’clock in the morning, I might have been able to get a cheap burner somewhere.

I would make do.

Before abandoning my alcove and only means of connecting to the internet, I searched for the nearest bus or train station. They seemed to occupy a shared terminal and were located a good twelve blocks from my location. It took another few minutes to memorize the route. When I was sure I knew where I was going, I dropped my phone on the ground and stomped on it several times with the sturdy heel of my oxford. The screen cracked after the first blow. Three more solid hits and it was ruined. I kicked it deeper into the alcove and checked both directions again before tearing off down the street at a run.

I’d gone a half dozen blocks before I couldn’t run anymore. I was ready to collapse. My battered body screamed and protested the exertion. The last block I’d managed with an unsteady limp. My hip was killing me. I had to slow down. If they were after me, I’d lost them. I knew they wouldn’t give up, not after what I’d done. There was probably a team of people tearing through the city by now.

It was sheer luck that I found a massive government building on a corner with a decorative stone water fountain out front. I ducked down on the far side so I could keep an eye on the street and dipped my hands into the freezing water. As I scrubbed the drying blood from my fingers, I felt every bit like Lady Macbeth. The frantic need to be rid of evidence made my movements jerky.

I didn’t have a mirror, but I was certain there were smears of blood covering my cheeks and hair, so I scrubbed there too until the bitter cold of the water made my teeth chatter.

Sweat soaked into my clothing under my coat, and I couldn’t stop shivering. It was September in Canada, which meant fall was moving in. I was accustomed to cool weather, but I’d never had to deal with it without proper preparation. I’d never had to run a marathon wearing trousers, leather oxfords, and a wool coat either. It was grueling.

Punishing.

The dump of adrenaline was the only thing keeping me going.

I swiped the stray droplets of water from my face and blotted my hands on my trousers, all while keeping my eyes peeled. My heart wouldn’t calm. I spun, unsure what way I was facing, once again without a sense of direction. If I didn’t focus, I wouldn’t get away from here. They would find me. It was only a matter of time. The alarm had been raised.

Would they call the police?

Who was I kidding? They would have to.

A sob climbed my throat, but I forced it away. There wasn’t time for self-pity. I could cry and be afraid later. I could revisit it all at a different time.

Getting my bearings, I took off in the direction of the bus station and train depot. One way or another, I was getting out of the city. I didn’t run. I couldn’t any longer. My limbs had turned to jelly, and my injuries throbbed with their own heartbeat.

When I spotted an ATM, I stopped to get cash. How much? There would be a limit to what I could withdraw from a machine, wouldn’t there? Was it the same in another country? Different? I wasn’t sure what that limit would be, but I was certain they wouldn’t allow a person to take out tens of thousands of dollars in one go.

When the machine prompted me for an amount, I cringed, hesitated. In the end, I requested five thousand dollars and held my breath. The machine whirred like it was counting cash, then the screen changed and told me I was unable to withdraw that sum.

I tried three thousand instead. No go. Then two thousand, then one thousand before it spat out the money in twenties and crisp polymer one-hundred-dollar bills. I wasn’t used to plastic bills, they slipped around in my trembling fingers, and I was afraid I’d lose them.

On the next block, I found another ATM and managed to withdraw another thousand. Another block down, I got another thousand. I repeated the process at various machines until I tried a sixth machine, and it declined my request, informing me I needed to contact my bank for more information.

“Shit.” I’d probably triggered some electronic monitoring thing that looked for suspicious activity. Figures.

I stuffed the five thousand dollars into several pockets on my coat and pants and stuck a few hundred in each shoe. It wasn’t comfortable, but I knew enough to spread out the cash in case someone tried to rob me.

I returned my wallet to my pocket with no intention of using it again. It was not a risk I was willing to take. I knew they could track card usage. No trail. Cash from here on out—not that five thousand dollars would get me far.

It was a weak plan. A terrible plan.

It wasn’t a plan at all.

My night wasn’t supposed to end like this.

In blood.

As a fugitive.

How soon until my face was plastered on every TV across the nation?

* * *

The bus station was brightly lit. Large buses marked with the word Greyhound were lined up along a curb, some of them silent, others rumbling and waiting for departure. The stench of exhaust was thick in the air, and I covered my nose with a palm until the metallic scent of blood overwhelmed me. I removed my hand and choked on the preferable fumes instead.

A huge brick building sat beside a covered, outdoor terminal. On the other side of the terminal were train tracks. There were no trains in the station, but there were people. Lots of people. I assumed there was an early train leaving the city shortly. I wanted to be on it.

The hairs on my neck stood on end. What were the chances I could get a ticket and get out without being recognized or seen? Would these people know my face? I’d been all over the news several times, thanks to my family. Would someone put it together? When my face was plastered on the TV for a different reason, would they recognize me and report where I’d gone?

I scanned, looking for sharply dressed men on a mission. The punishing rhythm of my heart prickled more sweat along my hairline. I inched forward with my chin down, studying every face as covertly as possible as I made my way to the main building. There was an inside waiting area which was brightly lit, benches lining the vast room beyond. There would be a bathroom. Did I risk going inside and finding a mirror? Was there still blood on my face? Was there guilt in my eyes?

Deciding against venturing into the building, I approached a ticket window on the outside of the terminal. There was a line, but it wasn’t long—two middle-aged gentlemen and a woman who looked to be the same age as me. None of them paid attention to their surroundings. They were either glued to their phones or lost in their heads.

I glanced at a widescreen TV attached to the wall where the bus and train schedules flashed intermittently across the screen. Where would I go? I couldn’t leave the country without a passport, but I could skip cities or provinces. Toronto was a prime destination by the look of it. I could leave one major city and get lost in another. That would be ideal. From there, I didn’t know what I’d do, but it would give me time to think. I could vanish into a sea of millions and never surface again.

The line moved forward. I wiped my hands down my coat over and over, certain they were still stained with blood. My gaze skipped left and right. When a bead of sweat trickled down my nose, I envisioned it was crimson and slapped at my face in a panic. If I didn’t calm down, people would notice my hysteria. The tremors were getting worse. I was hot and cold and ten seconds from vomiting again. My ears rang.

It was the woman’s turn, and she moved up to the window. The person working behind the protective glass screen was a Black man in a sweater vest with a white shirt underneath. Embroidered on his vest was the company’s logo. I wasn’t close enough to read his name tag, but I focused on trying so my mind wouldn’t race out of control.

A car door slammed in the near distance. A scuffling of feet sounded behind me, and my whole body tensed, a flood of heat filling my veins.

Don’t panic.

I turned in the direction of the noise. Two men in black suits with black overcoats spilled out of black town cars. A second car screamed into the bus terminal behind it and pulled haphazardly in front of the first. More men spilled from the second vehicle. Four men, and they were spreading out and racing through the station, speaking into hidden microphones on their cuffs. Wires marked the listening devices they wore in their ears.

They’d found me.

My body turned to ice as I calculated my chances of escape. In seconds, they would spot me.

There was no time to think. I took off at a sprint, aiming for the corner of the building, looking to get around it and out of sight as fast as possible.

As I rounded the corner, a man cursed in my native tongue then called out. “Leopold, stop!”

I didn’t stop.

How stupid could I be? Of course they would check the bus station and train terminal. I was an idiot.

A flurry of activity erupted behind me. I didn’t look back.

Behind the building was a long-term parking structure. My oxfords slapped the pavement as I ran from one end to the other, weaving between cars and aiming for the other side. It was as long as a football field, and I was tired and hurt. There was a fence ahead. Ten feet high. Razor wire along the top.

“Fuck!”

I didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

I skidded to a halt a few feet away from the fence and scanned the perimeter to see how far it ran and if I could get around it. Shouts from behind told me I didn’t have enough time to contemplate. I grabbed the rusty diamond wires of the fence and scaled it as fast as I could, my shoes slipping a few times when I didn’t catch an edge. The old wires bit into my tender flesh. At the top, I stalled, staring at the lines of razor wire. I was going to tear myself to shreds at this rate.

I flicked the sleeves of my jacket over my hands and grabbed a section of the sharp wires before heaving a leg over the top. The twists of pointed metal poked through my trousers and scraped the skin underneath, but I kept going. Once over the top, it took me a full minute to free my clothing where it was snagged on the fence. Fabric tore, but I was free. The men chasing me were most of the way across the parking structure, yelling at me to stop and shouting other warnings in my native language.

I dropped the last five feet to the ground, and my tired legs buckled on impact. I flung my hands out to brace my fall and skinned my palms raw on the gravel underneath. Scrambling upright, I took off into the night.

On the other side of the fence, a short gravel service road gave way to bushes and trees. It was overgrown and wild. Where it led, I had no idea. I pushed through, tripping on the undergrowth. Branches hit my face, slicing my skin. My cheek stung, and fresh blood welled to the surface.

I kept running.

The shouts faded as I gained distance, but I wasn’t fooled. They wouldn’t give up. Those men worked for my father. The last thing they would do was let their ward escape. Especially after what I’d done.

The bushes gave way to open land. I took less than a second to scan my surroundings, then I broke free into the night. I had no idea where I was or how far I’d gone. The city was on my left, fading into the distance. I’d entered a more industrial part of town. Warehouses or some other kind of storage buildings sat closer to the road up a small rise on my left. To my right were the train tracks and darkness, save for the odd spotlight that lit up the lines. In the distance, a quarter mile or more away, more concrete buildings stood under a blaze of floodlights. A steady crashing and clanging erupted from that direction. A train yard. The Montreal station behind me was an extension, but ahead was where the freight trains were coupled and uncoupled, preparing for long, cross-country journeys.

In the scant seconds I took to observe, a loose idea formed. A foolish idea. In the back of my head, I knew it was reckless.

I’d seen it done in movies. It didn’t look hard.

What choice did I have?

Trains slowed as they went through train yards, didn’t they? I would think they reduced their speed when going through or near stations, even if they weren’t stopping. But how slow was slow?

What the hell did I know?

I took off at a sprint, the ground uneven underfoot as it sloped down toward the tracks. If I twisted an ankle, if I fell and broke an arm, I’d be screwed. The fence must have slowed the men. I couldn’t hear them, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe they’d given up. They would never give up. I needed to get away. I needed distance so I could think. Process.

The train yard loomed up ahead. A massive fence surrounded it with signs warning trespassers they would be prosecuted. Inside the yard, there were rows and rows of train cars, all sitting on different lines. Some were solo. Others were joined together.

In the distance, I heard the telltale sound of an approaching engine, but I couldn’t figure out which direction it was coming from or what line it was on. There were dozens and dozens of lines and moving cars in the yard. It was a confusing mess that made no sense. The noise was incredible. Unbearable. When another loud crash sounded, I startled and covered my ears. Squeals of metal on metal pierced the air. A hiss. Another clang. Another booming crash. The hot scent of diesel burned my nose.

I ran along the edge of the fence, trying to decide where I needed to be. The bustle and crowd of train cars compromised my view. In the end, I scaled the fence, ignoring the signs warning me to keep out.

At the top was more razor wire, but I could see far. I maneuvered gracelessly over the sharp, unforgiving barrier, tearing my clothes and skin even more, then I hung on as I scanned the yard. The only open lines seemed to be on the far side. There were several that ran alongside each other. The rest of the lines seemed to be where the cars were moving back and forth, crashing and banging together.

In the distance, the blinding beam of a train’s headlight grew larger. I had to get to that far track before it made it to the yard. Was this the anticipated passenger train moving into the station, or was it a freight train?

I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. I needed to get out.

I was a good hundred or more yards away from where I had to be.

I jumped down off the fence, cursing when I stumbled, and took off toward the far track. My lungs protested, my thighs burned, but I gave it all I had left. I’d been on the run for more than an hour. If I could somehow make it to that track, if by some miracle the train slowed enough I could jump on, I’d be free. I’d be safe.

“Just like the movies. You can do this.”

Halfway to my destination, a man shouted, “Hey! You can’t be in here. Hey! Stop!”

More shouting erupted behind me. This time it wasn’t the men in suits, it was the workers in the yard, and I was pretty sure they were running after me too. Great, just what I needed.

I beat the train to the tracks, barely, and it wailed as it came toward the yard. The light on the front was blinding. The engine squealed at decibels that stabbed like knives into the soft tissue of my brain as it applied its brakes, slowing as I’d suspected it might.

I tore across the tracks with my heart in my throat, extra cautious of my footing, and tumbled to the ground on the other side, taking more skin off my hands and tearing a hole in the knee of my trousers. I wasn’t on the ground five seconds when a hot gust of air pummeled into me from behind as the train raced along the tracks, passing me.

The power of the engine so close made my skin crawl. The sharp current of air stirred the gravel and dirt beneath me, blowing it into my eyes. Shaking with adrenaline and fear, I got to my feet, wobbled once, and stepped back in time before I fell forward into the train. It wasn’t going alarmingly fast, but it certainly wasn’t going as slow as I’d hoped. I couldn’t hear the men any longer, not over the roar of the train. They were on the other side, so I’d bought myself time.

If I could somehow get on this beast of an engine, I would be gone. They wouldn’t catch me, and neither would my father’s men.

It was a passenger train, and it was endless. I watched the cars zoom past, looking for an opportunity, seeking some place that would work as a handhold where I could grab on. There was nothing. The main body of the train was smooth, and there weren’t any places on the outside to snag.

Then I noted that every few cars, one appeared with a small area in the back with a ladder. If I could grab one of those ladders and hold on tight, maybe I could draw my legs up and heave myself higher until I was on.

Flop sweat trickled around my collar as I debated my plan. It had sounded good in my head ten minutes ago before I’d scaled the fence into the yard. It looked easy on TV. In reality, my stomach and heart protested.

Then I remembered the blood. The roaring, guttural cries of a wounded man. Everything I’d left behind in the twenty-seventh-floor penthouse room I’d been staying in at Chez Sebastian.

Tears blurred my vision faster than the wind from the train could dry them. I clenched my jaw and watched the passing cars with new resolve. New determination. I had to do this. If I didn’t, my life would be over. I choked on a sob and made myself focus.

I jogged beside the train. It was going far faster than my feet could carry me. I had to take a leap of faith. I had to time it just right and grab onto one of those scarce ladders at exactly the right time. It would tug at my arm, but I was prepared for that. I would hold tight, firm my grip, and pull my way up until I was secure.

I didn’t have to go far. Whenever it stopped next, I would get off, pay for a proper ticket with cash, get a good seat inside, and leave.

This was it.

I picked up my pace, watching over my shoulder for the next available car with a hanging ladder. There was one coming. Three cars down and moving fast toward me.

I was so focused on the passing cars that I wasn’t watching the ground and where I was running. My foot caught on a rock, and I yelped as I stumbled forward toward the racing train. Fear like I’d never felt before filled me. Flailing my arms, I tried to catch myself, but I was going down.

Right as I lost my balance, at the same second I envisioned my body falling under the wheels of a speeding train, someone grabbed my jacket and shouted. Whatever they said, it was lost in the cacophony of the train’s screams.

The person yanked me backward and to the side, and I was falling again, but away from the train.

I’d been caught.

Was it my father’s men or the train yard workers?

Either way, I was fucked.