Underlife by Robert Finn (different e readers txt) 📕

she could fit this situation into her life while keeping her sanity intact: she was right in the middle of some freak exception to the world’s everyday rules. And there was a sparkle of hope in that thought. If Rachel could find her way off this train and onto a plane home there was a very good chance that she would never have to worry about Warren and what he represented ever again. There was no reason she couldn’t go at least another twenty-eight years untroubled by the fact of his existence or what it might imply.

Of course, like any good idea, the problems tended to show up once you got down into the details. If she could get off this train, her life could go back to normal. But as ‘if’s went, this one was a bear. Though surely there had to be some chance that once Matt came back with whatever it was that Warren was after, that would be that. And she could almost allow herself to believe that he would come back. She was not a trusting soul, but Matt seemed… remarkable somehow, or at least different, though she couldn’t put her finger on why she felt like that. Maybe it was just that she didn’t know anyone remotely like him. He was an unknown quantity which made it easier to believe that maybe her usual low expectations didn’t apply.

Or maybe he was a little bit remarkable. At the back of her mind, she was still turning over that strange conversation they’d had, outside, before all this happened. The weird chemistry of that encounter seemed to have left her with an unexpected residue of hope, an unexplained faith that he really was doing his best to help her. Common sense told her it was wishful thinking, but all the same, there it was.

So that would be the first miracle she needed: for Matt to return with Kieran’s things. And then what? Warren would get the train moving, they’d finally reach the next station, and Warren would make his escape, leaving her to continue on to Heathrow with just enough time left to check in.

OK, that obviously wasn’t going to happen. Not with a dead body on the train, another on the tracks and the floor of the train looking like something from an abattoir. But maybe after enough policemen had asked her enough questions, and the delays had stretched out longer than anyone expected, maybe then they’d let her go home. That sounded possible, didn’t it? And for that to happen, Warren just needed to release them unharmed.

As it had twenty times already, Rachel’s mind’s eye dragged her back to the moment the knife went into Sebastian’s chest, the gleaming blade slicing down into thick muscle and piercing his heart. There was something particular about the sureness with which Warren had done it. She had known without a doubt when she saw his hands move that he had performed exactly that motion before.

Perhaps the first time he had been nervous, his hands awkward. Perhaps the second time he had been a little steadier, more business-like, but maybe he had still hesitated. But he’d killed Sebastian with a simply, precise efficiency — and no more fuss than if he’d been twisting the top off a jar. So what number had Sebastian been? His third? His fifth?

And she thought back to the look on Warren’s face when Sebastian had been shot. It had affected him. He’d been visibly upset. But it hadn’t stopped him forcing a knife between his friend’s ribs. Once he’d made his mind up, he hadn’t wavered — no matter that Sebastian was someone he cared about. So what did that say about Warren? That he was ruthless? That he would do whatever he thought he needed to do? What worried Rachel most was that it suggested — in fact it did more than just suggest — that Warren didn’t like leaving loose ends. Matt had said his friend disappeared after working for Warren. Getting rid of loose ends explained that too.

Was Warren going to make an exception this time? Would he leave witnesses behind — especially when he had such extraordinary secrets to protect — secrets that would be picked up by every single newspaper and TV station in the world if they got out?

Sebastian’s only crime seemed to be that he might survive long enough to wake up in hospital, where he might say something, or do something, that Warren didn’t approve of — or get so delirious with pain or medication that he’d demonstrate one of his impossible abilities to a room full of hospital staff.

Nope. Warren didn’t seem like the kind of person who would run the risk of turning on the TV to see her and Matt telling their story on the evening news, followed by an identikit picture of his face filling the screen.

And if he didn’t like leaving witnesses behind, was there anything at all she could to protect herself? Like, what if she promised not to talk? Crossed her heart. Really, honest-to-god swore that she’d say nothing. And then Warren would have_ _to believe her and he’d be sure to let them both go without hurting them.

Of course he would.

She let her chin drop a little as she felt the hopelessness of the situation. And Warren chose that moment to poke his head round the corner of the doorframe and into the carriage. “Good,” he said, seeing her sitting there, looking dejected and defeated. “You just sit tight,” he said, and then disappeared back into the rear cab, to keep his vigil for Matt.

She returned to the thread of her thoughts. The endpoint of all that theorising was that she could either sit there waiting to die, or make use of what was probably only a handful of minutes to come up with a plan, a way out, before Warren decided to shut them both up for good. The problem was that her mind was blank. She needed to _think_.

But no ideas came… although… but that was really clutching at straws. A couple of times she’d seen people talking on cellphones on the Underground. She’d never understood how they got a signal, but sometimes people did. Or was that just on tube lines that ran near the surface, where the stations had those huge openings between the platforms where the rain would come in? She couldn’t remember. At any rate, she could at least try it. Her cellphone was in her luggage.

Since Warren had just checked up on her, now was the best moment to make a move. She probably had at least a minute before he’d look in on her again. She slipped out of her shoes and padded away from the cab and towards her bag, looking back over her shoulder every few moments for signs that she was being watched. The fact that he’d poked his head around the door kind of implied he didn’t have some sixth sense for spying on people. If he looked out and saw her away from her seat she’d say she was going for a Nurofen. I mean, who wouldn’t need a Nurofen at this point in the proceedings? Maybe she’d write to them and suggest they used this situation in their commercials.

She edged around the broad pool of Sebastian’s blood and reached her garment bag. The phone was in a velcroed pocket up near the handle. Gently, she started to ease the flap up, tearing the fastening apart. But the noise! Dear God, who invented this stuff? No matter how slowly she went, the velcro made a sound like a Geiger counter on full volume — a sound like a Geiger counter sizzling in hot fat. And it was taking too long. Working slowly didn’t make the shredding sounds quieter, it just spaced them out. So she tried to arrange the ripping, crackling sound into regular rhythmic bursts so it would sound like the mechanical clicking of some part of the train.

It took more than a minute — probably more like two — before she had the pocket open. She slipped the phone out of its recess and then faced the next problem. She had turned it off before stowing it in her bag. As it powered up it would beep and chirp to let her know it was coming to life. Why did phones have to do that? Was it the same reason that computers in movies had to twitter every time text appeared on their screens? But maybe she could stuff the phone in with her suits and muffle the sound that way. Fortunately the suits were in a section that sealed with a zip — a good quality one that she was fairly certain could be opened silently. She bent down and took hold of the zipper’s tab down at the bottom of the bag… and her hand bumped against something cold and solid. Kieran’s gun.

Her last glimpse of Kieran had been him holding on to the back of the train with one hand and hugging his briefcase with the other. Before that, he must have either put the gun down or dropped it. Then, as the train’s brakes had locked up, the gun must have tumbled forwards in the dark, sliding along the central aisle of the train until it finally encountered an obstacle: her bags.

Rachel was momentarily paralysed. She wanted to grab the gun, but where would she hide it — she was wearing a close-fitting skirt and a tailored blouse — but wouldn’t you know it, no holster. And if she grabbed the gun now, would she have the guts to use it? Waving a thing like that at Warren wasn’t going to work as a deterrent; he’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t afraid of guns. She’d have to wait for a moment when he was distracted, and then she’d have walk up behind him and shoot him. And she wasn’t sure she could do that: sneak up, stick a gun in someone’s back and blow a hole in him — not even if it saved her life.

She made herself pick up the gun. Wrapping her fingers round the roughened metal grip felt symbolic, like she was agreeing to something before she was really ready. It was like those legal disclaimers that were plastered over every new product these days: by taking hold of this gun you agree to waive your consumer rights to a guilt-free existence; you hereby accept responsibility for the consequences of brandishing loaded firearms in volatile situations; you acknowledge that you may be required to forfeit the remainder of your life or to end the life of another, as specified in your purchase agreement.

She saw that the safety was off, the hammer pulled back. She was fairly sure the slide would be locked back if it was empty. So it probably had at least one round in it. But it must be nearly out of bullets because she could remember at least five shots being fired, maybe more. How many bullets did an automatic hold? She’d fired rifles a few times and watched about a million hours of cop shows. Six shots for a revolver, maybe more for an automatic — that’s if the clip had started out full, which maybe it hadn’t. At any rate, she wasn’t going to be getting into a lengthy shoot-out. If she made her move, she’d probably only get one chance, only need one bullet.

A hissing sound made her jump and her hand tightened reflexively around the trigger, though not enough to fire the weapon, thank god. The sound was coming from all around her. And there was a weird voice, barely audible, horribly garbled coming from all sides. For an insane moment she thought it was… she put the superstitious