Page 9 of Thorn

“We’ve got movement.” Thorn broke away from the support beam, stretching his long, muscular legs, turning and sidling, shouldering his way through the crowd. He felt like a salmon trying to swim upstream. He turned the corner in time to see DuBois arrive at the last urinal in the overly occupied bathroom.

DuBois unzipped and fished out his dick.

The janitor had the decency of letting DuBois take a leak, shake it off, and shove himself back in his pants before he made his approach. Pushing his cart behind DuBois, the janitor positioned himself so his back shielded their interaction.

A wall and urinal in front of Dubois, a wall to the side, the cart behind him, and a thug. DuBois was trapped.

The janitor bent his arm, and Thorn knew from his posture that the janitor had a gun shoved under DuBois’s rib cage. The janitor bent to whisper into the scientist’s ear.

Thorn would normally think the gun was for show. Intimidation. It was meant to get DuBois to act in a specific way. His life shouldn’t be in imminent danger here in the men’s public bathroom. But the chick with the head swivel seemed to be playing on a different team from Billy Watts. Possibly a third interested task force.

Since Thorn was playing on a team with a redacted name hiring them in, Thorn couldn’t trust any reasonable scenario. He wasn’t quite sure what the hell was going on, but his job was to protect Dr. DuBois.

Sidling up as if he needed to take a piss, Thorn reached for his zipper then let his hand snake around the janitor, gripping the gun barrel, and pushing it toward the floor. Thorn turned and wrapped his other arm around the man’s neck, catching the guy’s chin in the crook of his arm. Thorn grabbed the shoulder of his own leather jacket and used it as a tether as he squeezed down tight.

The sides of the janitor’s neck were trapped between his bicep and his forearm, allowing the janitor to breathe, but stopping any blood flow to his brain. Thorn wasn’t sure if this was a good guy or a bad guy. If he was a good guy, then Thorn would only be taking the guy out of the game, but the ball would stay in play. If he was a bad guy, coming after Dr. DuBois? Thorn wasn’t keen on killing someone here on foreign soil, especially since he wasn’t the one being attacked. Thorn had no authority to act here.

The guy dressed in the janitor’s uniform struggled. Hard. He was trained and knew what he was doing as he fought back. And worse, Thorn recognized that this guy had the special forces clarity of thought and the determination not to give up. Thorn was exhausting his own energy quickly, not just taking the guy down but doing it as quietly as he could with the bustle of men in and out behind him, taking a dump, washing their hands; and so far, minding their own business.

Thorn shuffled his stance a little wider to stop the janitor from brutalizing his shins and trying to snap Thorn’s knee backward.

The janitor was weakening.

Thorn realized he’d only been able to get him in this position by sheer surprise, and Thorn only kept the janitor in the lock because of hisowntraining and determination.

Thorn was panting, his heart racing from exertion. He was fighting one armed. His other hand wrapped the barrel of the gun, pushing the slide forward just enough that the bullet was out of battery. Though, the janitor compulsively twitched his trigger finger, trying to get a round off.

One slip.

One.

And Thorn knew both he and DuBois could be shot.

The thrashing stopped. The janitor’s weight slumped on Thorn’s arm. Thorn needed to make sure this guy was really lights out, and not playing possum. It had happened to him before – Thorn wasn’t likely to fall for that trick twice. Thorn was still counting under his breath as he tossed the gun into the trash bin on the cart, the hell he was going to get caught with that thing on him if they got stopped by the police.

DuBois stood there, eyes wide, mouth wide, frozen with fear.

Thorn needed help stowing the janitor. “I could use backup,” Thorn growled under his breath, knowing that the computer would pick up the sounds and amplify them for his team.

“I’m almost to you, rounding the entrance,” Honey said.

“Stay still,” Thorn told DuBois. “The U.S. government sent us to help you.”

DuBois didn’t seem to believe Thorn. Plastered against the wall, he raised his hands in front of him like he was getting mugged on the city street.

Honey tapped Thorn’s shoulder to signal he was there.

DuBois tilted his head as he looked up to Honey’s full height. And then held as if petrified.

“The U.S. government sent us to help you,” Honey whispered a repetition of what Thorn had said, trying to drum the information into DuBois’s terror-shocked brain.

Thorn kicked at the janitor’s cart to give himself some maneuvering room. He dragged the janitor to the wall and let him drop. Digging his phone from his pocket, Thorn took a few quick photos that he sent on to Nutsbe for identification. He used his foot to slide the guy’s limbs in tighter, making the janitor small enough to be hidden as Honey pushed the cart in front of his unconscious form and stepped on the breaking mechanism.

“Okay, here we go,” Thorn said, turning his attention to DuBois. “Let’s go get your luggage and get you out of here.”

DuBois’s focus slid to the janitor.

“He’s not dead. He’s just taking a nap,” Honey said with a soothing, compelling voice. The kind he used to coax people out into the light when he was on a rescue.