Witness To Death. Dave White

      Frank took him by the shoulder. The phone flew from John’s hand. They ran. John felt himself lumbering, nearly losing his balance with each step, waiting for the ground to rush up to his face. And then what? Would Frank double back to help? John was already fifteen feet behind Frank and losing ground with every passing second.

      Still running, John looked over his shoulder. One of the trenchcoats came around the corner, dropped onto one knee, and aimed his gun. John froze. He felt his mouth drop open, his eyes widen. The breath he took tasted like sugar water, as if his body knew it would be his last and wanted to enjoy it. A breeze whisked past his ear, then the gunman’s head exploded into a cloud of red particles. And John snapped back to reality.

      He turned and ran again, seeing Frank holding open the door of the Light Rail with one hand and shooting over John’s shoulder with the other.

      “Come on! Pick it up!” Frank yelled.

      John stumbled ahead, trying to speed up. He tumbled through the doors of the Light Rail. Frank fired two more times and let the doors close. Three people were curled up in balls near their seats.

      Frank turned his gun toward the conductor, who immediately raised his hands over his head.

      “Go,” Frank said. Then to John, “Got four. One left.”

      The train started to roll. The conductor’s hands shook, and he was whispering into the CB.

      “He’s talking to the police,” John said.

      Frank didn’t appear to be fazed. His eyes were scanning the train.

      “Frank,” John said. “Frank. He’s calling the—”

      “Of course he’s talking to the police. What would you do? Now shut up.”

      “What the hell is going on?” John asked.

      “I said, shut up.”

      This was ridiculous. John was sitting on a train bench gasping for breath after being shot at. Shot at. He could have been killed.

      John closed his eyes. Electricity started in his stomach, balled inside him, and forked into his arms and legs. It charged through his brain and he started to shake. Uncontrollable fits and tremors. He couldn’t catch his breath.

      “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” The words tumbled from John’s mouth, sending spittle flying as they did.

      Frank took a step toward him. “John. Okay John, you need to—”

      The train erupted in gunfire. Frank twisted and fell onto his back, aiming his gun in front of him. The last trenchcoat came through the door that led between train cars, firing blindly. Two men on the train hit the deck. A woman covered her ears and screamed.

      Frank fired once and shot the gun out of the trenchcoat’s hand. Took one of the trenchcoat’s fingers with it.

      The train screeched as someone hit the emergency brake. Frank dropped his gun, and his assailant toppled on to him. Frank hit the guy with a right cross and then kicked him backwards. Both Frank and the trenchcoat got to their feet.

      John backed into a corner.

      He had once read how stoners on PCP could get so hyped up from the drug, they could withstand all sorts of punishment. The guy in the trenchcoat reminded John of that. His hand was spurting blood, and yet he was still on his feet, hands in a boxing position, ready to fight.

      Frank approached him without hesitating. Trenchcoat took a swing, but Frank leaned back and dodged it. He then hit the guy with three quick punches in the stomach. The guy doubled over, gasping for air. Frank hit him in the back of the neck with an elbow. The attacker went down again.

      John pushed himself to his knees and crawled further away from the two of them, not wanting a better look.

      Frank was on top of the guy, his hands wrapped around the guy’s neck. The trenchcoat was flapping his arms against Frank’s head, but Frank didn’t flinch. He gritted his teeth and leaned closer to the guy, then slammed his forehead into the guy’s nose. Blood burst from his nostrils, spattering the ridged rubber floor. Trenchcoat’s legs splayed out and kicked against the ground, trying to gain traction. But they kept sliding against the ridges.

      Once. Twice. Then nothing. Both arms hit the ground. Frank pulled the guy up by his neck and slammed his head into the ground. He turned to the conductor.

      “Get this goddamn train started.”

      “I can’t. It takes twenty minutes to charge everything up again after the emergency brakes are engaged.”

      Frank stood up, breathing heavily, blood smeared across his face. He took two steps and stared the conductor down.

      “Get it started as quickly as you can,” Frank said.

      The conductor nodded and started to pull switches and press buttons. John heard a whoosh in his ears as the blood flowed to his brain and his vision clouded. He tried to breathe, but instead threw up all over the train floor.

      He spit the bile from his mouth and wiped his mouth with his hands. Frank was staring at him, his lips tilted at the edges.

      “Please tell me what’s going on,” John said.

Chapter 3

      The train took about twenty minutes to power up, just like the conductor said. During that time Frank did his best to ignore John. He wouldn’t answer any questions; he just watched the rest of the passengers. There were only five other people. Three of them were like John, sitting on the train’s floor, knees pulled tight to their chest.

      Frank moved over to him and said, “Listen to me.”

      John opened his eyes.

      “When we get to Weehawken, we’re probably going to have another problem, the police.”

      “Oh G—”

      “Shut up. You’re going to do exactly what I say. As soon as the train stops, I’m going to get off and take care of the police. You’re going to keep moving. Get to the ferry station and get on the boat. I’ve ridden it before. It should be just about to pull away from the dock when we get there.”

      A tremor shook John. “I can’t. I lost my cell phone. I don’t know where it went. It’s gone. That guy, his head. There’s blood. The police.”

      “Just do it. I’ll be right behind you, and we’ll sort this out.”

      Outside the window, the lights of the New York skyline and the ferry station were getting closer. Another five minutes, maybe. John watched Frank replace his gun in his holster and took a deep breath.

      The train screeched into the station, and Frank moved toward the doors. On the platform stood two police officers, hands on their weapons. A few people milled about behind them, wondering what was up.

      Frank took John by the crook of his elbow and pulled him to his feet. John’s legs wobbled, but he kept his balance. He edged up near the double doors, Frank standing directly in front of him. John watched a line of sweat drip from Frank’s neck down into the collar of his shirt.

      “Everyone stays on the train until I get off,” Frank said. “That way, no one gets hurt.”

      A few people mumbled back. Frank nodded to the conductor, who opened the doors.

      Stepping off, Frank said, “Evening officers.”

      Just like that. John’s vision blurred. Like nothing happened tonight.

      The conductor yelled through the doors, “That’s him!” As if the blood on his face wasn’t enough of an indicator.

      Both policemen pulled their guns and told him to freeze. Frank did the opposite.

      He