Chapter 15
1097 Words
The train screeched into the underground platform, sending a gust of stale, metallic air rushing past Alister’s face. He pulled his hood lower over his brow and stepped aboard, clutching the envelope tightly beneath his jacket. His ribs still ached from the cellar escape, and every motion sent a dull throb up his spine, but he moved with the calculated steadiness of a man who had no other choice.
The carriage was mostly empty just a few scattered passengers, heads bowed to their phones. Alister slid into a corner seat and adjusted the green security vest he wore over a faded hoodie. It had been a last-minute acquisition, stolen from a clothesline outside a maintenance office near the train yard. Just one more piece of the puzzle that helped him blend in.
A man slid into the seat across from him middle aged, thick jacket, worn loafers. He looked over Alister casually, then nodded.
“Busy night, huh?” the man said, voice low but friendly.
Alister gave a noncommittal grunt.
“City’s gone mad lately,” the man went on. “You hear about that fugitive? The one they say killed a guy in Colombia and fled back into the country?”
Alister’s stomach tightened. He forced a neutral expression and shook his head.
“Nah,” he said, adjusting his posture. “I’ve been off the grid. Work.”
“Well,” the man leaned closer, lowering his voice like they were sharing something sacred, “rumor is, he’s still here in the city. Slipped past the cops during a raid. They’re combing everywhere airports, stations, tunnels. Real ghost, that one.”
Alister managed a dry smile. “Sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
“Maybe. But they always slip up. Always.”
The man leaned back as the train lurched forward. Alister stared out the window at the blur of tunnel lights, his mind ticking through the next steps. He was running low on time and options. The envelope beneath his jacket was more than just documents it was evidence, leverage, maybe even a death sentence if it fell into the wrong hands.
When the train reached the final stop, Alister exited without looking back. He disappeared into the crowd of late-night workers and travelers, weaving through alleys until he reached the kiosk where his parcel had been stashed. Tucked under a stack of day-old newspapers, the small brown package fit easily into his satchel. Just as he slipped it inside, he noticed movement an officer watching the street from across the road, his gaze momentarily locking with Alister’s.
Alister turned casually, heart racing. He crossed the street and ducked into a nearby stairwell, pretending to light a cigarette until the officer moved on. Then he kept walking.
The airport was a fortress that night. Bright lights, restless murmurs, and an unusual number of security officers pacing along the terminals. Alister kept his green vest on, shoulders slumped, eyes down. Maintenance staff were invisible in places like this always present, rarely noticed.
He passed through the first checkpoint unnoticed. The ticket he’d printed earlier bore a false name, but the photo ID matched well enough thanks to some clever digital retouching by an old friend. He limped slightly, not for sympathy, but because the pain in his side made it impossible to walk any other way.
At the check-in counter, a young woman looked up from her desk.
“Sir, your ticket and ID please.”
Alister slid them over. She took them, typed something into her system, then paused.
“You’re with airport facilities?”
“Yes,” he said, calm and bored. “Got called in for a unit inspection in Zurich. Some of the cooling systems need urgent replacement.”
She nodded, handed him his boarding pass. “You’re all set.”
As he moved toward the security line, he caught sight of three men in plain clothes speaking with two airport officers near the gate entrance. Their body language was sharp hands tucked inside coats, scanning faces. Federal, maybe. Or worse.
Alister ducked into a nearby restroom. He locked himself in a stall and sat, pulling out a small roll of tape from his sock. Inside it was a razor-thin strip of plastic his backup. In one fluid motion, he stripped the ID photo off the card in his wallet and replaced it with the new one. Different haircut, subtle facial change, slightly older. The system wouldn’t check twice unless they flagged him.
When he stepped out, he spotted a janitor pushing a cart nearby. Alister grabbed a small broom from the unattended cart and casually walked along the terminal hallway, mimicking the janitor’s slow gait as he blended into the background.
Near Gate 32, a voice crackled over the intercom. “All passengers for Flight 117 to Zurich, please proceed to boarding.”
He joined the line, head still down, and kept the broom tucked under his arm like it belonged there. A security officer stepped forward, eyeing passengers one by one. When it was Alister’s turn, the man looked at his vest, then the boarding pass.
“You working or flying?”
“Flying,” Alister replied, tone indifferent.
“You don’t look great.”
“Got food poisoning three days ago. Still shaking it off.”
The officer narrowed his eyes but waved him through. “Travel safe.”
Alister stepped onto the jet bridge, fighting every urge to look back. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he kept moving until he was inside the cabin. The plane was half-full mostly business travelers and a few tourists. He found his seat near the rear and sank into it, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours.
He glanced out the window, watching the tarmac lights blur in the distance. The engines hummed to life, and the plane began to taxi.
As the wheels lifted off the ground, Alister leaned back, mind racing beneath a calm exterior. He’d slipped through again but barely. The envelope was still tucked under his jacket, its contents more dangerous than any weapon.
He stared out the window, watching the airport shrink beneath them, lights thinning into the black.
By morning, he’d be in Zurich.
A city of snow, silence, and secrets. And if the person he was meant to meet still kept their end of the bargain, he might finally have a chance to end this. Or die trying.
But for now, he had altitude, time, and distance on his side.
And sometimes, that was enough.
- Writer
