James gave him a look.
“Go, damn it!”
James slid through the entrance to the stacks once again.
A large lump squeezed through Thomas’s throat as he swallowed hard. “Damn!” His neck felt tight. “Little bastard.” Thomas crouched down behind a desk with his pistol drawn, bouncing his attention between the prisoner and James’s search of the stacks—it wasn’t long before he returned.
“All clear.”
James shifted their prisoner into a seated position and dragged him back against the wall. The flashlight caught a portion of the man’s face, his nose crooked and flowing red. James grabbed some tissue from a nearby desk, rolled it, and stuffed a piece in each nostril.
“Damn,” the man puffed, “ya didn’t have to do all that.” The man nuzzled his face against his shoulder, streaking blood across his face and clothing. “I was giving up, honest as ever.” The man’s eyes lacked any sign of sincerity. There was an eerie smile resting behind his fake words. Thomas had seen this before—a man surrendering while in the back of his mind planning how he would end you.
“Who are you?” James demanded.
“David. Nice to meet you.”
“You little shit.” James slapped him across the face. “Damn it!” He wiped blood across the front of his pants. “You’re one of the Butcher’s men aren’t you?”
“Hell if I am.” His answer was quick. “I just use the services when they’re in town.”
James took his flashlight more deliberately across the man’s face. There wasn’t a scar, not even an attempt at giving him one.
Thomas rocked forward in the chair. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Finding books to get some time with the girls.”
“James, mask him, and we’ll lock him in the supply closet until tomorrow.”
Chapter Six
Thomas appreciated James’s setup and had picked two chairs of his own. Leaning back with both hands cradling his head, unable to sleep, he stared toward where the ceiling must have been. The sense of security that let him sleep so soundly the first portion of the night had been compromised. The reason lay just around the corner, locked in a small closet.
Only Thomas appeared to hold this apprehension that prevented sleep. A deep ache in his mind—an inability to keep both eyes hidden from the world—lying there plagued with phantom sensations that crept across his neck and chest—a lingering effect of the ambush that he couldn’t shake. Any time he found himself dozing, almost as a defense mechanism, his body jerked, trying to expel this feeling of hands wrapping his throat. It was a close call, much closer than any he had experienced.
James, on the other hand, didn’t stir, nor did the stranger. How the hell are they sleeping? He continued to collect thoughts from the darkness around him, reflecting on the day and the lives he had stolen.
He pictured their faces—that couple in the train yard was simply trying to survive, likely scared because of what may have happened in the past, completely unaware that there were people in the world who wanted to improve it, not solely to take advantage of it. If given the chance to explain, to speak with them and lay out the possibilities of a better life, maybe then they could have been saved.
But of course it didn’t appear that way to them. Thomas and James were well armed, unlike others they may have encountered before. The deceased husband was simply trying to protect his wife, thinking of her first and the horrors that James may have wished to inflict upon her. In his mind, it must have been better to take a shot than to wait and see the intentions of this stranger. Was it a last ditch effort or a false sense of confidence in their abilities? Either way it was an underestimation of their adversaries that left them both dead in the yard—two lives lost that didn’t have to be.
The two of them weighed no more heavily on his mind than James’s actions, perhaps even less so, at least they were dead and would no longer contribute to his stress. It was James, this child in a man’s body—selfish and inconsiderate—that would continue on with him. As if there weren’t already enough pressures in Thomas’s own trial, but now to babysit James, to hold his hand through his process.
From the start, Thomas knew that James would be trouble. How he traipsed into the room, tossing his shit about and crashing into his favorite chair. How he walked around the apartment as if he owned the place. No respect for anything, and then to step way past the line and suggest that he give up Joseph. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. His only cares in the world seemed to be for himself. Of course, contradicting that was his lack of regard for his own life. His stupidity in the yard, not listening to Thomas to wait it out, deciding he knew best, that rushing in was the answer. James knew better—patience had worked well in numerous instances for them in Syria.
Then it hit him. Maybe James was part of this. Maybe attaching him to this mission itself may have been another test involved in the trial. It wasn’t a complete secret that Thomas held disdain for James and his antics. Some of those in the Second Alliance had also served with them in Syria. If Thomas could prove that James could be kept in line, effective and loyal to what needed to be done, then—
His thoughts were interrupted as James’s foot slipped from one of the chairs where he slept. Thomas flashed him with his light. James grumbled something before propping his leg back on the chair and dozing off again. He’s still asleep, lucky bastard. Thomas tiptoed around James and cracked the door to the supply closet. Thomas flashed the prisoner with the light. The mask puffed in and out from the angle of his nose. Of course, this guy’s sleeping like a baby too. Better than him trying something else… I wonder what his story is. This reckless… teenager?
Thomas couldn’t pinpoint the age, and to be honest, it didn’t truly matter. Age was mostly trivial. It was experience, courage, and survival instinct that mattered. It was the actions of an individual that made them a man. And the actions of this infiltrator showed every indication of one—clever in his decision to lure them in with the lantern, but a novice in his execution of the opportunity he had made for himself. Although he was not of any significant size, had he prepared his ambush rather than acting brazenly, he may have gotten the better of the two. The fact that he didn’t have a gun was astonishing. Luck.
Thomas sighed, his interest in this personal inquisition began to wane. He secured the door to the supply closet and crept back past James. He leaned back in his chair and flicked his flashlight on and off as he had been most the night. James’s face was still free from expression, eyes closed, enjoying the rest that Thomas deserved. I’m driving myself crazy with this shit. He marched out into the library to grab a book.
He hadn’t noticed that night was now morning. The windows were beginning to allow a trickle of sunlight into the library, but it wouldn’t be enough for reading. He decided on the sure thing and went to grab the lantern. He took it and meandered through the stacks, his fingers walking across the tops of the books. Occasionally, he would pull one slightly from the shelf, glance over the cover then nudge it back into its place.
Eventually, Thomas recognized a book his father used to share with him when he was younger. He held it within his grip while a sense of childhood nostalgia swept over him. Aesop’s Fables. Dad, you always liked to crack this open when I did something stupid. He sat at one of the round tables in the middle of the room. The wooden chair let out a deep groan and crackled a bit more as he scooted himself in. He laid the thick book in front of him and parted the pages. How appropriate. A picture of a hare and tortoise racing—he couldn’t help but think of James. He dimmed the lantern to a comfortable glow and began reading softly to himself.