Grand Central Terminus

People rush around me.

They tote handbags and bear backpacks, they’re dressed from seeing-the-president formal to flopped-out-of bed casual, and they whirl about each other in their **** quest to go somewhere else.

I sip my coffee slowly.

It is cold, not because I ordered it that way, but because I’ve been sitting in this Starbucks for the last few hours. I have been ever so slowly working my way through my drink, watching these people, their comings and goings, and I’ve also been on the lookout for Vidocq. There’s been no sign of him anywhere, so far. Maybe I have made it out.

Minutes after entering Grand Central Terminal, I had slunk out a backdoor via a service exit, a route memorised after studying the blueprints of the place. This was important because, great as Mr. Samuel is, it’s possible that Vidocq followed the truck taking me out. It’s not a likely thing, but it also helps defend against the more probable scenario: a war-room will be organised once Father’s men figure out that I’m missing, and then they’ll certainly spot the fridge and truck anomaly. If they do their job right, they’ll trace the truck via CCTV to Grand Central and infer that I’ve tried to lose them with the typical subway tricks that they’re used to me pulling. After all, when’s the last time I left New York?

They would never imagine that I’d be sitting a couple blocks away, here in Penn Station instead.

A couple minutes pass, and I spot a blind man wearing a corduroy vest and slacks ambling in my general direction. He’s led by a seeing-eye dog, one that, as it leads him into the Starbucks, nearly bumps into me. He stumbles at the last second, catching himself, and he mumbles an apology, tipping his grey cap in my general direction.

I continue watching him out of the corner of my eye. He orders his coffee, paying with some neatly folded bills, turning down the change, and then he’s off on his way again. I check my watch. I should be going soon, too.

I heft my backpack over my shoulder and toss my coffee into the garbage can by the side. I head to one of the information boards displaying the various trains and their platforms. The Amtrak Northeast Regional has an hourly train to Philadelphia, but I didn’t know when Mr. Samuel’s people would come to pick me up, so I had to get tickets leaving late in the day. I glance up above the info board, and just as expected, there’s a camera there. I zip my hoodie up all the way, concealing the black t-shirt I’m wearing underneath it.

It takes me some time to get to the platform. I wander through the concourses, consulting one of the directories at the side, taking a wrong turn or two, before I finally end up standing in front of the train platform I’m supposed to be at. There’s still ten minutes until the train departs, and the train’s not here. I pretend to look puzzled and pull out my phone, searching for something about Amtrak trains being delayed on it. I look up and into a camera stationed above the train tracks, and then hastily look away, shuffling somewhere else outside of the camera’s field of vision.

Five minutes before the train is due to depart, it finally pulls into the station. The grey metal blur screeches to a halt in front of me, the sudden gust of wind ruffling through my blond hair. I’m the first in line, and I slip into the train as soon as the doors open, making a beeline for the bathroom.

Time is short.

After locking the bathroom door behind me, I rummage through my backpack and pull out a small box. The packaging reads “Quick Touch 1 Minute Hair Color - 434 Copper Brown,” but I rip it open without second thought, pulling out the two tubes contained within and a disposable comb. I squirt out the contents of the tubes across the comb and run the shitty gloop through my hair. In the mirror, blonde begins to turn brown. The ads say it will take one minute to hold; I’ve just got to trust it.

Off comes my jacket, and I pull off the black shirt I’m wearing. The bottom hem catches on my hair dye, still wet, but no matter—both get stuffed into my backpack. I pull out a white dress shirt and button it up, tuck it into my pants, and put on a belt. Then, from another pocket in my backpack, I pull out a dark pair of sunglasses. A pair of earbuds slot into my ears, I quickly re-comb my wet hair, now a musty brown, and the quick change is complete. I check my watch. Three minutes and a couple seconds until departure.

I unlock the bathroom door and head out. I’m holding the ticket bearing my name in my hand, and I’ve just got to find the right target now. The first train compartment that I’ve walked through has nobody that I can hit. Either they don’t have their tickets sitting out yet, or they’re positioned in a way that would make it inconvenient for me to make the swap. Shit.

I push open the door to the next compartment. I eye up a young couple behind my sunglasses, considering if they’re the right ones to mark, but then they look at me, whispering to one another, and I walk on. Then, I see him, at the end of the car—the blind man and his guide dog. His ticket is placed in the handhold above his seatback, and of course, he’s fucking blind. Perfect.

I stumble as I approach his seat, reaching out for the handhold to stabilise myself. His ticket comes flying out, and I curse, muttering a fuck, and I shove my ticket into the spot where his was. His ticket goes into my hand; it’s useless now. Mine will be scanned by the conductor and entered into some Amtrak database, declaring me southbound to the City of Brotherly Love.

Then, I head back the way I came from. I push through the compartments again, unapologetic as I brush past a young lady with a kid. There’s less than a minute before the train gets going. The entrance that I got on was a blind spot for the cameras, and I exit the train just as the doors start closing behind me.

I let out a breath. There’s no way to get to where I need to next without staying completely out of camera-shot, but that’s why I changed my outfit. I speed-walk through the concourse and head for another platform, staying out of sight from the cameras where possible. Hours spent memorising blueprints pays off in the space of minutes.

Now, I’m impatiently tapping my foot in front of a northbound train platform.

It’s time to head to Boston.

It’s time to open a new chapter of my life.

Claude Ashworth’s life.

This marks the end of Arc 1 of Markus Najbreit’s story: The Estranged Son of a Billionaire

Let me know what you think of the story in the comments: big questions you’d like answered, places I can improve, things that you like… Also, I’ve got one interlude planned before jumping into the next arc, but let me know if there are any POVs you’d like to see, and I’ll try to see if I can make another interlude work!