White Night

Chapter 21

        With one deafening bang, the black window was in front of Michael again. Frigid air brushed across his skin as the window pulled him closer. He stepped back from it, but his body kept moving forward as the black void pulled him closer, through the glass and to a new scene on the other side.

Glowing street lights warmed and soothed him until he turned and saw his mother's mouth drop open and her eyes close. Her body rushed toward him and he tried to catch her, but she was coming too fast, way too fast. I can't hold you, Mom! She crashed through him and the world went silent before sound began again.

"Nooooo!" screamed long and loud from a boy's lips, but not his own.

His eyes sprang open, and his brief respite from pain and fear ended in another clammy nightmare. Light streamed through the curtains as the enormous room heater clattered to life. The clock on the nightstand read 2:00 pm.

You're awake, Michael, here for another day at least.

Two hours. He was sleeping less and dreaming more—not dreaming but reliving, his mind consumed by a dark replay of the night he was shot, morphed with his mother's death a decade ago. Rest was no longer restful. Even when exhaustion overtook the pain, his brain escalated his fear to new heights with its sick reenactments.

It wasn't only turbulent dreams he had to fear. If his shoulder didn't kill him, then Victor Hansen would. Michael's plan to head south to a permanent escape from his adversary was screwed, and if Hansen had cops on payroll, then Canada wouldn't be out of his reach.

But why now? Michael was no threat to anyone, least of all Hansen.

They'd had no contact since his fist connected with Hansen's face eight years ago. Surely too much time had passed for Hansen to seek revenge for a rearranged face?

He had to know more. Where was Hansen now? Who was John Weston and why did Hansen kill him?

Rolling over, he lifted the heavy plastic motel phone off the nightstand. The cops might've been able to track the searches on his cell, but there was no memory on this phone, no search history to scroll through and find out who he'd called.

His hand shook as he dialed the number for Information and spoke the name he'd never wanted to hear again.

The lady at Information had the number in seconds.

"Yes, sir. Do you want Councilmember Hansen's office number?"

Councilmember Hansen?

The asshole was on city council?

"Sir, do you want the number?"

"No!" He slammed down the phone. Was that how Hansen knew where he lived? Calling Mrs. B and scaring the crap out of her with crank calls...

He was shot at work. The son of a bitch probably had his tax records, knew who he worked for, how much he made, where he ate...

Twisting on the bed, he moved his head closer to his injured side, but no position was comfortable. Nothing gave him relief from the stabbing pain savaging his shoulder.

A handful of over the counter painkillers had helped him sleep and he took another bunch. It might kill him, but Hansen had already tried and failed, and he wouldn't spend any more of his life living in fear. If he woke up, he would drag his sorry corpse to Canada, but first he would stop at the Councilmember's home.

Talking with the son of a bitch was pointless. You don't talk to someone who's already taken a shot at you. Like it or not, he had to finish what Hansen had started.

A decade ago Hansen had crashed into his world, wiping out the last of his family. Now he was back, paying cops to kill him.

He was still a coward, but Michael wasn't...