The Courier

By Sean Monaghan

Hap Thorne's skills run from high-level investigations to low-level courier jobs. Even shady courier jobs. At least those ones pay.
Today he's got a package collection in the worst part of town. No questions asked.
But when the "package" turns out to be a six-year-old girl, Hap knows he's tangled in a world of trouble.
The question is, will he be able to save her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Triple V Publishing
• Release date: Dec 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311988737

Sean Monaghan

Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music. Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music.

Book preview

The Courier

A Hap Thorne Thriller

Copyright 2015 by Sean Monaghan

All rights reserved

Cover Art: ©breakermaximus | Dreamstime.com

Published by Triple V Publishing

Author web page

www.seanmonaghan.com

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Smashwords Edition.

Contents

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty one

Chapter twenty two

Chapter twenty three

About the Author

Chapter One

The rain coursed through the alley, catching the streetlights in thousands of pinprick sparkles. It built up on the roofs and fire escapes, streaming through pipes and crannies, making cascades down stone walls and windows.

On the ground, Hap pulled his collar closer around his neck. He was already soaked through, water squishing in his shoes, running down his back.

On the street an electric car whined by, tires hissing away across the surface water. From a few blocks away came the sound of a siren.

The alley had a fence at the far end, closing it off. Blocking Hap’s exit. He needed to make sure he kept on the street side of the door.

This was the address. 1382C Mayberry. A part of the city he usually managed to avoid.

Faywood had once been the kind of suburb perfect for bringing up kids. Twenty, thirty years ago. Turn of the century, or so. Even swallowed up in Lexington, the town had manicured parks and good schools, museums and decent infrastructure. Like everywhere, oilcrash had taken its toll.

A lot of mid-rise apartments went up. Stone things like these. Brownstones with a couple of dozen extra stories.

The alley stank of stagnant water and animal waste. Near the fence sat a green-black Dumpster. Someone had sliced out a window with a cutting torch. Even this makeshift accommodation had been abandoned.

Using the ball end of a small ballpeen hammer, Hap rapped on the steel door. The door gave a dull echo. Stepping back, Hap waited.

The door had a viewing slot. Painted black, almost invisible against the rest, especially in the rain and dull light.

The rain continued. A big jet rode overhead, engines burring the air as it dropped for Blue Grass field.

A small animal clambered onto the fence. Sitting up on its haunches the rat or squirrel looked around, silhouetted, sniffing the air. With a flick it vanished.

No one came to the door.

Hap unfolded his iPhone. Water beaded on its creased screen.

Address? he said.

Repeat, the phone replied. Hap had downloaded a new voice a couple days back. The English butler was wearing thin. He liked this better. Mila Kunis, in Bayou Balloon, circa 2021. A sultry southern accent. Got it, the phone said. Thirteen eighty two see Mayberry. Eight thirty p.m.

He held the phone up to the door. This this place?

Repeat. Got it. Yes, confirm. This is the place.

Time?

Eight thirty two.

So I’m on time and in the right place.

The phone didn’t reply.

Hap folded it and stuffed it back in his pocket. Normally he would would just walk away at this point. Thing was, he needed the money. After the storm back in Passaic, things were pretty shot. He figured a couple of medium-risk jobs like this and he would be back in business.

He glanced out at the street again. A pedestrian strode by, sipping from a Giant Gulp cup from the convenience store a couple of places back. Between the florist and the defunct electronics store.

If Hap was honest with himself, he didn’t need the money. He would be fine. Always had been.

Even after setbacks.

He rapped on the door again with the hammer.

This time the slot opened with a clank. Hap got a glimpse of light inside before a set of lenses flipped into the gap.

In the glassy glints he could just see the lenses moving. Looking him over.

What’s your business? an artificial voice said. Might have been a cheap Clark Gable.

Hap Thorne, he said. Got an appointment.

Courier?

Hap drew a breath. To think he’d been reduced to this. He thought of Maria and the girls. At least they would never know. Yes, he said.

The lenses flipped away. The slot sealed up again.

The door opened.

Hap stepped into the vane of light spilling into the alley.

#

Hap didn’t see anyone as he walked inside and up the stairs. The walls were draped with lo-tech. Wires and creepers, self-pinned to the drywall. Probably just enough to run the door security from anywhere.

As he climbed he smelled soy and chicken, and he heard the crackling sound of stir-fry. Someone making Chinese.

Another door blocked the landing at the top of stairs. Wooden. Hap knocked, with his knuckles this time. The hammer was safely tucked into his belt where he could grab it quickly.

The crackling of food changed and he heard footsteps. The door opened. Wide.

A burly man stood there. In a faded Imagine Dragons t-shirt and jeans. Hap wasn’t sure if the shirt was a genuine 2020 tour shirt, or something retro, printed to look old. The man looked Eastern European–long heavy nose, thick eyebrows.

Courier, he said. His accent sounded more like he was from Louisville.

Yes, Hap said.

The man stepped aside and waved Hap inside.

The apartment was dark and grimy. The door let straight into the kitchen. Hap could see through to the living room with threadbare couches and a television at least thirty years old.

The door closed. The guy grabbed him and shoved him against the wall.

Hey, Hap said.

Sorry, buddy, gotta pat you down. The big hands groped his armpits and sides, cautiously around his crotch, right down the inside of his legs.

Hap felt the hammer slide out.

Well, the guy said. Don’t know if this counts as a weapon or not.

Leather working, Hap said.

Yeah, very convincing. That’s why you’re carrying it in your belt, right? Out here. I guess you’ve got your leather-working club meet on the next block right after this?

Something like that. Hap shrugged.

The guy turned to the stove. He stirred at a wok with a wooden spoon. Steam swirled and the meal bubbled.

Package is on the sofa, the guy said. He gave a nod toward the living room. Don’t mind Eddie.

Eddie?

Yuh. Don’t mind him. The guy kept stirring.

Hap went through to the living room. Across from the sofa a guy sat on an armchair. Hap stood behind the sofa’s back. Eddie? he said.

The guy on the armchair didn’t reply. He had pieces of a disassembled gun laid out on top of a print magazine on the coffee table.

The weapon looked like a Samsung .9. Chrome and black. Good accuracy over a short range, but tended to jam if you tried to empty the clip too fast. Could carry twelve slugs in the magazine, with one in the chamber.

Beyond him a Venetian-covered window let in air. Light from the alley bled through.

Hap bent over the sofa back. He expected an envelope, maybe a small packet.

Instead he found himself looking into the eyes of a girl. She’d twisted her head back to look up at him.

Hey mister, she said. She was maybe five or six. No older than Chelle. Mixed race. Her skin was milked coffee and her hair was black, but her eyes were blue. Little bright sapphires glinting up at him.

What’s this? he said.

The guy on the armchair kept working on the gun. He slid the barrel onto the stock.

Are you my sitter? the girl said. I’m Daisy.

Yes you are, Hap said.

The guy kept assembling the gun.

Hap went back to the kitchen.

The big guy wasn’t cooking any more. He’d moved to a seat at the kitchen table. Another pistol lay on the Formica top. Muzzle pointed right at the living room door. Right at Hap.

The guy had his hand on the table edge. A few centimeters from the weapon.

What’s going on? Hap said. In the pit of his stomach he already knew. Set up.

You have a package to deliver. You know the address.

Hap nodded. It had come with the original job. In Charleston. West Virginia.

Across a state line.

Is there a problem? The hand edged toward the gun.

It was supposed to be a package. You know. Brown paper, maybe taped up. Maybe even with a UP-EX sticker.

Hap heard a distant thumping. Somewhere out in the alley.

No stickers, buddy. No tape. Just a package.

Transporting a minor across state lines. I’m not being paid enough for that kind of thing. He’d always been cognizant that there was an element of risk. Otherwise they would just be using a regular delivery service.

But Hap knew what to do with regular packages if the cops started sniffing. Out a window or set on fire.

How was he supposed to deal with a child?

More thumping from outside.

You agreed to a price, I guess. Now the guy picked up the gun. I don’t know about that. Not part of my job. My job is to make sure the package is collected.

It’s not a package, Hap said. It’s a kid. She should be at home with her parents.

A big, goofy grin. Who’s to say she’s not?

Really? That’s what you’re going to–

Or that she’s being taken home to her mom and dad, huh?

Hap nodded. All very reasonable. I quit.

As he turned for the door he glimpsed Eddie. Standing in the living room doorway.

Gun assembled.

Pointing right at Hap’s temple.

A crash from downstairs.

Hap ducked.

Company, the big guy said.

Hap staggered as Eddie shoved past. He ran to the stairway door and pulled it ajar.

Gunfire.

Some of the bullets came through the gap. Buried themselves in the ceiling and wall.

Eddie returned fire.

Hap backed into the living room.

Door Eddie, the big guy yelled. Close the door.

Hap heard footsteps. People running up the stairs.

More shooting.

Daisy? Hap said.

He bent over the sofa. The girl had gone.

Looking around the room, he couldn’t see her. Daisy? Louder.

More shots.

Eddie screamed.

Hap moved around to the window. He yanked the Venetians open.

Immediately someone outside fired. The bullets smashed the glass. Broke the frame.

Eddie! the big guy shouted from the kitchen.

Hap turned away from the window. He lay on the floor.

There was Daisy. Squeezed right under the sofa.

Eddie!

The door slammed.

Hap rolled across the living room floor. He scrambled along to the coffee table.

Daisy watched him all the way.

Come on, he said. He beckoned her out.

Daisy shook her head.

Something crashed into the stairway door. The big guy shouted.

More shots.

Come on, Hap said.

Running feet. Shots. Something heavy hit the kitchen floor.

The big guy from the sound of it. A dead weight.

Hap grabbed Daisy’s wrist. She squealed.

He dragged her out.

More feet moving. Slower now.

If he could just get her out, Hap thought. Get behind the coffee table. Hap upturned the table. Pulled her around with him. Right behind it.

The girl whimpered.

It’s all right, honey, he said.

More footsteps. In the kitchen. Voices. Moving into the living room.

Clear. A woman. Slight Spanish accent.

Right behind you. Male. Older. English. Maybe Long Island.

Daisy had fallen silent. She stared into Hap’s eyes.

We’re here, Hap said. Unarmed.

Show yourself, the woman said.

Stay down, Hap whispered to Daisy.

He sat up. Arms raised.

Who’re you? the guy said. Tall. Too thin. Two hands on an old long-barreled chrome revolver.

The woman was shorter, heavier. Both of them were in black biker leathers. Silver studs. Speckled with rain.

Hap, he said. I just got here too. He winced at the too. These people carried powerful guns and he was almost joking.

Well, Hap, the woman said. She lowered her weapon. A little Glock with a laser. He was sure the light was trained at the center of his forehead. You might just be able to help us out here.

Hope so.

Don’t talk to him, the guy said. Shoot him and we can go.

The woman sighed. We’ve got two down already. Besides, he doesn’t fit with those guys.

Two, three, what’s the difference?

Parole, she said. One each and we might get paroled after twenty, twenty-five. Three total and that’s life without parole.

Haven’t heard of–

This is Kentucky. She spat the word. Remember that.

Hap stayed where he was. The woman had her hair tied back. Definitely Latino. A dark mole on her right cheek, and perfect teeth.

So, Hap, she said. We’re looking for a girl.

Can’t help you, Hap said.

He watched the guy. Jumpy. Maybe in withdrawal from something. Skin too white, stubble patchy. The tip of the gun wavered.

Hap moved to stand.

Stay where you are, the guy said. He turned to the woman. We’re not going to find her.

Hap heard a siren again. Closer now.

You haven’t seen a girl? the woman said. About three feet tall, blonde, pretty as a peach.

Could be anyone, Hap said.

Except, this girl was your package, yes?

I deliver genuine packages. Envelopes, UP-EX boxes. That kind of thing. I’ve never delivered an actual person.

The guy stepped back. Wasting time. She could be anywhere.

The woman nodded. So who’s that behind the coffee table then? She was addressing the question to both of them.

Nothing he could do now. They had the guns.

That’s Daisy, Hap said. She was here when I got here.

Why don’t you stand up, Daisy? the woman said.

Hap glanced down at her. The girl trembled.

It’s all right, Hap said.

She shook her head.

The guy came around the sofa. He kept the gun trained on Hap.

The woman took out a phone.

Hap moved then.

He’d gotten his legs underneath him already. Prepped to spring.

As he jumped he grabbed the guy’s gun.

The guy managed to squeeze off a shot.

Angled up. The slug flew straight into the ceiling.

Hap’s momentum carried them both over. He’d expected more resistance.

With a wrench of his arm, he tore the gun from the guy’s grasp.

The guy drove his knee into Hap’s crotch. Mis-timed, but still hurt.

Hap rolled on top of him.

They both landed on the sofa. The guy grabbed for the gun.

Hap held it out. Back.

The guy scratched at Hap’s arm. Hap drove his elbow into his ribcage. The guy’s breath exploded. Hap thought he heard a rib crack.

The guy kept at it. Scratching and kicking. Biting even.

Hap brought the gun around.

Teeth sank into his arm. Even through his denim jacket it hurt.

Hap got the barrel turned. He shot the guy in the shoulder.

The guy spasmed, screaming. He flopped around under Hap.

Backing off, Hap swung the gun at the woman.

She was gone already.

Along with Daisy.

Hap left the guy writhing on the sofa and ran for the stairs.

He almost tripped on the big guy’s body.

Hap yanked open the door.

Cops. Running up the stairs at him.

CHAPTER TWO

At the station, they stuck Hap in an interview room. Tech plastered to the walls, watching and recording. Overkill.

But of course, how many cops had died in interviews over recent years? They were real careful these days.

He waited an hour before anyone came. Then it was just a clerk. A middle-aged woman, asking if he wanted the bathroom or something to drink.

Hap asked for coffee. When it came, it was in a tiny Styrofoam cup, and probably days old. Station houses around the country really needed to upgrade from those old percolators that ran all day and night.

With his uncuffed hand Hap took the cup and drank. Yep. Pretty bad. He’d downed the cup before the clerk had even left the room.

Sheesh? she said. You want another.

Sure would appreciate it, thanks.

Back in a jiffy.

When is someone going to see me?

Buster, I’m seeing you right now.

Hap nodded.

Not long after the second cup arrived, two officers came in and sat down. One he knew–Sandie Fitzpatrick–but the other was new. His badge read Pendleton.

Sandie still looked good. Carrying a little extra weight, but her fair skin was clear and her eyes were still sharp. She’d updated her hair since he’d last seen her–which had to be years ago–now she had it in a bleached, tousled mop, cropped in a bob just above her earlobes.

Sandie unrolled a tablet on the table and called up data. She pushed the table across at Hap. Recognize this guy?

Sure.

Do you know who he is?

Just met him today.

And you shot him already, Pendleton said, still on his feet, leaning over Hap.

Is this how this is going to go? Hap said, trying to ignore the man and focus on Sandie.

Jake. She tapped Pendleton’s arm. We’ll do this the nice way.

Jake glowered, but he backed away. He slipped around onto the fixed bench seat, sitting next to Sandie.

The man is Terry Thatch, Sandie said.

Hap didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a question. They’d Mirandized him back at the apartment, but he didn’t think he was going to say anything to incriminate himself. He had plausible reasons, all ready to go.

He’s in bad shape, Sandie said. Broken collar bone, scapular and a whole bunch of torn-up muscles. You’re lucky the bullet didn’t puncture a lung. That would have been real bad. As it is, he’s not going to be throwing any footballs anytime soon.

Didn’t strike me as a quarterback, Hap said. More like a wide receiver.

Sandie smiled. Jake’s frown deepened.

I suppose you have a good reason for being in the apartment.

Delivery, Hap said. You can check my phone.

We did. Sandie pulled his beat-up old phone from a pocket. She unfolded the device and slid it across next to the tablet. Triple code lock. Tidy on such an old piece. What is this, a 2025 model?

2027.

You need to upgrade.

Yeah, but the newer models don’t have triple lock security.

Which you’re about to unlock for me.

Hap nodded. He tapped in his code, thumprinted and recited the voice-recognition poem.

Sandie grabbed the phone back. She wiped through menus quickly and pulled up his calendar.

1382C Mayberry, she said. Delivery.

Soy sauce, Hap said. Funny kind of delivery.

Jake jumped to his feet. You know what I think? I think you weren’t delivering at all. I think you were making a pick-up.

That’s a common mistake, Hap said. To the outsider it can be hard to distinguish the minutiae of a courier’s work.

Cut it out, Sandie said. Both of you.

Jake, mouth open, sat back down.

Sandie leaned forward. Hap, she said. Help us out here. A little girl is missing.

Hap closed his eyes.

He’d had assignments go belly-up before–busted packages, hauled in by the cops at some random checkpoint, payments double-switched out–but this kind of thing was new.

Kids go missing all the time, Hap said with a shrug.

She’d looked right into his eyes. Like she was trusting him.

Really? Sandie said. She held up the phone. These are your voxmess?

Hap nodded. All his voice messages had come up, except for those under the fourth and fifth coding levels. Invisible to her or anyone else.

The phone had undergone some serious modding in Nairobi and then in Caracas. The little thing looked busted and old, but it had more sophistication than some of the top-end models around. Maybe in another year or so the off the shelf phones would catch up.

So let’s see, Sandie said. She read from the screen. ‘Delivery; one case of Old Shanghai premium soy sauce. By eight thirty pm. 1382C Mayberry. Three thousand eight hundred dollars. COD.’

Hap stayed impassive. He could still remember her asking, all innocent, if he was her sitter. Daisy.

Kind of a nice payday for six bucks worth of sauce, Jake said.

Glitching, Hap said. Couple of zeroes moved in after the final. It was thirty eight dollars even.

Did you see her? Sandie said.

He’s not going to tell us. Jake pulled out a little tech scanner. It looked like a half a golf ball with a palm-sized screen stuck on top. Jake passed it to Sandie.

She flicked it on and waved it over the phone. The scanner’s speaker bleeped as it went. After a moment she turned it to face Hap.

This phone’s pretty loaded up, she said.

The screen showed the mods in red, like an x-ray at a train station finding the scissors and nail clippers in people’s luggage.

You didn’t need me to unlock it at all, did you?

Sandie shook her head. Trying to appeal to your better nature.

If he has one, Jake said. Thirty eight hundred dollars.

Should I confiscate this? Sandie held Hap’s phone up.

Daisy. Right there. The smells of the apartment. The roughness of the filthy carpet on his skin. Daisy hiding under the sofa. Hap guessed this was the better natured part of him coming out.

All right. He lowered his head and took a breath. It was a pick-up.

Right away Jake looked smug.

Now we’re making progress, Sandie said. "Jake, would you