The gun couldn’t be real. Could it?
Morgan Thorsby clutched her friend Lacy’s arm and scooted back from the gun-wielding man charging onto the MAX light rail train. Brisk, chilling air rushed in behind him as she looked at the silvery gun glinting in the overhead light.
The weapon looked real. Very real.
The man took a step closer. Anger radiated from his body. His breathing was ragged as he made a quick survey of the space, skimming tortured eyes over the few passengers on board this late at night.
Please, God, don’t let this be real, Morgan begged, her heart thumping in her chest. She fought to control her fear and studied the man’s jittery behavior.
Could he be one of those shooters who’d been pushed beyond his breaking point until he’d decided to randomly kill people? She couldn’t just sit here and wait to find out. Her life was in immediate danger and it was up to her to protect herself. She had to do something, but what?
Run. Hide. Fight. The active shooter video she’d viewed at work rushed through her mind. The video taught them not to sit back passively but to run, hide or fight. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t hide. She could fight. But how? With what?
She searched the train looking for a weapon. Any weapon.
The man’s distressed gaze landed on her with a finality that took her breath away.
“He’s coming toward us.” Lacy grabbed Morgan’s hand.
“Don’t panic,” Morgan said and forced herself to look into the gunman’s eyes. She saw no life in the depths. Desperation, panic, yes, but nothing to prove he was alive.
Oh no. No.
She knew this man. She’d seen him in the sea of men and women who’d brought a class-action lawsuit against her family’s company, claiming Thorsby Mill had polluted the water and caused cancer in the residents. As the company’s attorney at that time, she’d seen the plaintiffs’ turmoil day in and day out during the trial.
Plaintiffs who’d threatened her life then and continued to send threatening letters after the mill had been cleared of any wrongdoing. The gunman was one of those people. And that meant he’d come for her. Her alone.
Her heart raced faster. Beating at an unstoppable gallop.
He continued moving, his ragged jeans whispering through the quiet. Step by step, he advanced on her, purpose in each thump of his dirty boots on the metal floor. Hatred spewed from his expression.
Morgan felt time stop. She was aware of Lacy’s touch. Of the cold. The icy cold. Her palms starting to sweat. The bag holding a Christmas present for her mother slid from her fingers, the crystal vase falling to the floor. The sound of breaking glass caught his attention, distracting him for a moment. But it all seemed to be happening at the end of a tunnel. In a foggy haze. All except the gun. It was clear and sharp and she could reach out to touch it.
Lacy clutched Morgan’s hand tighter, drawing her attention. Lacy didn’t deserve to be a party to this. Morgan had to do everything she could to portray strength and confidence for her friend, to ease her fear. Morgan sat up straighter. Firmed her shoulders. Jutted out her jaw and waited for him to act.
Eyes riveted to her, he took the last few steps. He raised the gun. Slowly. Purposefully. He planted it on her temple. The cool steel bit into her skin, and she recoiled in fear.
“Don’t back away, Morgan,” he said, his voice flat, as if he took hostages every day.
She could smell the sour stench of alcohol radiating from him. The blood drained from her head. She felt weak. Powerless.
“I’ve come for you. To pay you back. Just like I promised I would in my letter.” He glared down on her. “Your stinkin’ mill has taken my entire family, and it’s time for you to pay.”
Anything she said would make him angrier so she didn’t speak at all, but waited for his finger to drift to the trigger.
Silence descended on them, coursing through the space, tight, pervasive, building into a frenzy. A pressure cooker ready to erupt.
An announcement carried into the silence, warning that the doors would soon close. His eyes grew wilder, his hold on reality a mere thread. Seconds ticked by, feeling like an hour. Panic threatened to swamp her.
A twisted, mean smile claimed his thin lips as the doors whooshed together, cocooning her inside the car with a killer. The train set off, the side-to-side motion rocking Morgan, but the gunman stood strong, his weapon never wavering.
With the gun at her head, she couldn’t form a coherent thought except that she was going to die. She didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he simply stood there. Watching. Maybe enjoying her terror. Wanting to make her suffer as his family suffered.
Focus. Now. Figure a way out of this.
The train slowed for the next stop, brakes squealing as they bit into the metal. Doors slid open. A rush of freezing air sliced into the train. There were no passengers waiting on the platform to board. The only other passenger on the train, a man in the back of the car, bolted out the door. Quick, staccato steps took him outside and into the cover of darkness.
The gunman didn’t turn. Didn’t see. Didn’t notice.
Lacy. Morgan could save Lacy the same way.
Morgan forced herself to make eye contact with him. “You’re not upset with my friend. Just me. Can she please get off?”
He eyed Lacy for a moment. She cringed. He took a breath and gave the briefest of nods. “Go now. Before I change my mind.”
She stood slowly and looked back at Morgan, regret hanging in her eyes.
“Go,” Morgan said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Ha!” he shouted, sending Lacy fleeing. “You’ll be as fine as all of my family and friends your greedy family killed.”
Morgan ignored his words and kept watch on Lacy as she scurried through the falling snow into the dark shadows of the buildings. Good. She was safe. The car was now empty. If he fired his weapon, she’d be the only one injured.
The doors slid on the track, closing with a thump of finality.
“Now we’re alone, and we can get down to business,” he said.
Business. Meaning her death.
Time slowed and she was aware of everything around her. The grating of the train as they took a curve. The pungent scent of his alcohol. The unmistakable cloying smell of fear in the air.
“Do you even know who I am?” he sneered.
Morgan wished she could say she knew his name, but the plaintiff list was long and she couldn’t identify them all. She knew the truth was plastered on her face so she didn’t speak a word.
“You don’t know me, do you?” He shifted and pressed the gun deeper into her forehead. “I’m not surprised. Not after your coldhearted representation in the trial.”
He huffed out a laugh and ground the gun into her skin, his eyes fixed on hers. “Well, know this, Morgan Thorsby. I’m Craig Shaw and everyone will soon know my name. The minute we reach the last stop, I’m the man who’s going to drag you off this train, haul you out to your precious mill and end your life.”
* * *
Brady Owens listened to the hum of tires as the First Response Squad raced toward MAX’s final Yellow Line stop near Portland State University. A 911 call from the train operator who’d been listening into the hostage situation told them the shooter planned to disembark with his hostage at this stop.
“ETA two minutes,” team leader Jake Marsh announced from the driver’s seat.
“Roger