Now occupying the first passenger car, Maureen leads Sam back through a series of carriages—or cars—that house seated passengers. They once again enter the café car and take their places at the one table that’s still open.
“We seem to have lost our coffees along the way, Sam,” Maureen says. “Would you like another?”
“How about a beer?” he says.
“It’s nine in the morning, and we’re on the job. Nice try, Savage.”
“Worth a shot. So then, what’s the plan, Stan?”
Maureen produces two rings from her leather coat pocket. One is a gold band, and another is a diamond. She shoves the diamond on her wedding finger.
“Hope it fits, hubby,” she says.
More deception, he thinks. First, I’m a reporter interested in trains. Now, I’ve suddenly got a ball and chain.
Sam tries the ring on for size. To his amazement, it fits.
“We’re married suddenly, Maureen? Thought you no longer believed in the sacred institution?”
“For now, we pretend we’re just your normal everyday married couple, enjoying a trip to New York City for the weekend. That way, we blend in with the crowd. We’re incognito, like spies.”
“Incognito,” Sam repeats. Then, with a sly grin. “So, if we’re married, that means we’re lovers too.”
“Something along those lines,” Maureen admits, while rapidly blinking her starry hazel eyes, and gazing at the ceiling. “We were lovers. But I’m afraid that lately, I’ve been seeking out men who are more endowed than you are. It means I’ve been a naughty girl.”
“Are you sleeping with Morgan, the conductor? I knew Blondie was up to no good.”
“My, but what a big locomotive he has,” Maureen says, once more blinking her eyelashes rapidly.
“Cheater,” Sam says, twisting the ring on his finger. “I should have known you’d mess around on me. I wanna divorce. I get the house and the Billy Joel records.”
Maureen gazes up and down the busy café car as if making sure no one is taking particular notice of the couple. She gets up, comes around the table, seats herself directly beside Sam—so close he can smell her lavender scent.
“I’ve been a really bad, bad girl, Sam,” she says, setting her hand on his thigh. “I think I need a spanking.”
I’m beginning to love Amtrak trains, Sam thinks.
“You are indeed a naughty girl,” Sam says.
She squeezes his thigh.
“What was that you said about the Mile-High Club, Sam Savage?”
“I believe I referred to myself as a proud member.”
“And it’s me who’s the naughty one?”
“Well, you are my wife, after all, Maureen.”
“Have you ever heard of the Mile-Long Club?” she says, squeezing his thigh a second time.
Sam feels a start in his heart. He also feels something happening inside his jeans. It’s a rather tight feeling, but pleasant at the same time.
“I don’t believe I have,” he says.
Maureen gazes over her shoulder once more.
“The handicap lavatory is nice and spacious. It’s presently unoccupied. Why don’t you meet me there in a couple of minutes, Mr. Savage? I want to see up close and personal just how true you are to your name and reputation.”
“I’ll be there. Let’s hope we don’t make a whole lot of noise.”
“Oh my,” she says, “you might have to gag me.”
Slipping out of the booth, Maureen makes her way out of the café car and into the car directly behind it where the handicap bathroom is located. Meanwhile, Sam stares out the window onto the Hudson River and smiles.
“Everyone’s job should be this much fun,” he whispers to himself.
Exactly two minutes pass before he slips out of the booth and heads for the connecting car. Passing through the noisy coupling compartment, he presses the rectangular black button that automatically opens the car door, and he steps inside. To his left is a luggage storage rack. Directly ahead of him, a long narrow aisle flanked by bucket seats. Everyone seems to have their heads down while they stare at their phone or laptop screens. A few scattered people are reading newspapers or magazines. A few appear to be sleeping.
Sam might be having some fun playing married man with Maureen, but he’s still on duty as the sky marshal, even if he is operating on solid ground. It’s his job to observe everything and everyone, to look for anything that might seem odd or out of the norm. Admittedly, he’s got his eye out for anyone who might appear to be Muslim, be it a woman in a half burka or an adult male bearing a long scraggly beard and perhaps a Kufi on his head. Sam doesn’t go out of his way to profile people since he knows most Muslims are peace-loving people, but he’s also aware of this sad fact: Ninety-nine percent of the terroristic acts that occur worldwide come from Muslims. Mostly, the terrorism shows itself in the form of Muslims attacking fellow Muslims. But when a terrorist act occurs in the US, it is often the result of Muslims versus westerners.
However, like Maureen said, a new breed of terrorist is emerging these days. They are radical Muslims who appear to be very much the average white bread male or female. They could be your best buddy, your next-door neighbor, or even a policeman or elected official. Internet indoctrination knows no bounds. But it’s still Sam’s job to sniff these evil wrongdoers out. Sniff them out and eradicate them before another 9/11 occurs.
But right now—right this very minute—Sam’s going to engage in a different kind of operation. He is about to get to know his new pretend wife, Maureen Fawcette, just a little bit better.
He knocks on the door. He’s so excited, he feels like a little kid about to enter a candy store.
The door opens, and Sam slips inside the brightly lit lavatory.
“Quickly,” Maureen says.
He steps inside, and she locks the door behind him.
“Anyone see you?” she asks.
“I don’t think so,” Sam says. He feels a hand rubbing his erection. “You don’t waste any time do you, wife?”
“I’m trying to make up for being so bad,” she says.
Turning, she pulls off her jacket and her shirt, hangs them on the metal hooks on the back of the door. Sam grows more excited just looking at her beautifully shaped back and the black lacy bra that comes together at her spine. Maureen unbuckles her belt, unbuttons her jeans, pulls them down revealing a black lace thong that is buried deep inside one of the most beautiful heart-shaped bottoms Sam has ever witnessed. Her jeans now down around her ankles, she spreads her legs as far as she can manage.
“Punish me, Sam Savage,” she says. “Spank me hard.”
Sam can’t help but smile. He’s been in some interesting sexual situations before but never has such a beautiful and intelligent woman ever asked him to spank her.
What the hell, Sam thinks. There’s a first for everything.
He approaches her, places his left hand over the hand she has pressed against the lavatory wall. He then opens his right hand wide and gives her a slap. He feels her shudder and moan with both pain and pleasure.
“Again,” she says, her voice taking on a deeper sultrier tone. “Please.”
Sam slaps her again, just a little harder than the first time.
“Yes,” she says. “Again. Just like that.”
He complies, slapping her firm ass not once but three times. He’s a little concerned about the noise of the slapping being heard outside the lavatory door. But at this point, he’s so excited he’s nearly bursting out of his jeans.
“Time is getting short,” he says.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Maureen says, about-facing. “I’m being bad again.” Dropping to her knees, she makes quick work of undoing his jeans. Pulling Sam out, she looks up at him. “Is this better?”
She takes him in her mouth, works him with her magical tongue and lips. Between the motion of the train, the bucking and bouncing, Sam feels like he’s died and gone straight to heaven. She uses her hand to pump him while he’s buried in her mouth. He knows if things go on like this, it won’t take him very long to arrive at that very special place. But he doesn’t want to come to it all that fast. Sure, time is tight, and they have a very important job to do, but he wants to savor the moment for as long as he can.
He helps Maureen back up to her feet and begins to kiss her on the mouth, hard, passionately. Their tongues play, and they nibble one another’s lips. He unclasps her bra and pulls it off, exposing her firm white breasts and pointed nipples. He suckles them with his mouth while he uses both his hands to gently pull her panties down to around her knees. He then turns her around once again and enters her from behind.
She cries out, and Sam has no choice but to place his hand over her mouth. He is indeed gagging her, although gently. He knows that should her cries of passion be heard outside the door, it would mean both of them being busted. If that were to happen, Sam would be lucky to get a security job watching over a convenience store.
He thrusts himself into her, feeling his heart pound, a sheen of sweat now covering his bare backside, his breathing labored and quick, his head throbbing with adrenalin. He might be riding this train because he’s there to protect the passengers from all sorts of unknown dangers, but for a brief moment in time, he’s forgotten where he is or that he’s speeding more than one hundred miles per hour along uneven rails so that maintaining his balance has become a challenge. And when the time comes for him to release, he does so with all the strength left in him. She thrusts herself against his thrusts, and together they make it to that special place that is nirvana. For the briefest of seconds, he has become her, and she has become him, and all is perfect with the world.
Slowing their movements like a locomotive pulling into a station, Sam retreats and begins to redress himself. But Maureen pauses. Standing there with both her hands pressed up against the wall, her underwear and jeans pulled down around her ankles, her bottom red from where Sam’s hard, lower belly was colliding with it, she looks lovely, but at the same time, almost comical.
“Sam,” she says. “You hear that?”
“Hear what, baby?” he says, buckling his thick leather belt.
The train moves under their feet, the horizontal sway making it almost impossible to stand without holding onto one of the wall-mounted emergency grab bars.
Maureen quickly redresses herself. She’s gone from playful and passionate to all business in the flip of a switch.
“The engine,” she says. “The RPMs. Way too high. Way, way, way, too damned high.”
Sam’s pulse picks up speed. He now knows something is not exactly right with the train.
“What are you trying to tell me, Maureen?”
“We’re going way too fast. These tracks aren’t high-speed rails. These tracks are no different from what trains were riding fifty, or even one hundred years ago. They’re not designed to accommodate this kind of speed.”
She pulls out her radio. “Morgan, this Maureen, do you read me. Over?”
Nothing but static comes over the radio.
“Morgan, come in, this is Maureen. We’re going too fast. Over.”
More static. She gazes at Sam with wide, overly concerned eyes and bites down on her bottom lip so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if it started to bleed.
“Sam Savage,” she says, “we’ve got ourselves a big fucking problem.”
She opens the door, steps out into the narrow corridor. Sam follows. A man is standing just outside the door. He’s a short man, middle-aged. He’s tan-skinned, and the hair on his head is receding. He also bears a thick black beard.
Muslim, Sam thinks cautiously. Doesn’t mean he’s hostile. Could mean very much the opposite.
“Pardon me,” the man says. “But I saw you speaking on your radio earlier. You do not work for the train company?”
So much for being incognito, Sam whispers inside his head.
His voice is accented. Middle Eastern. Maybe Moroccan, Libyan, or Tunisian. Or so Sam deduces.
“Why you asking, pal?” Sam says, feeling the too fast train speeding along unsteady, the wheels slapping violently against the rails.
“The passengers,” Little Bearded Man says, grabbing hold of the luggage rack for much-needed balance, “they are growing concerned with the speed of the train. The car is swaying too much. Some of the passengers are getting sick.”
“We’re looking into it, sir,” Maureen says. “Please return to your seat at once.”
“Very well,” he says, his face masked with concern. “I am Safraz, and I am at your service should you require my assistance.”
“Thank you, Safraz,” Sam says. “Like the lady just said, please return to your seat.”
Safraz does as he’s told, heading along the corridor toward his seat, bumping into the seat backs as he tries to counteract the unsteadiness of the train car, once nearly falling into someone’s lap. Sam steals a quick second to gaze into the faces of the many passengers. Maybe no one is crying out in fear or shedding tears for that matter, but all the expressions look terribly tight, wide-eyed, and afraid.
Sam places a hand on one wall and the other on the opposite wall. He feels like at any minute, he’s about to be thrust onto his backside. He turns back to Maureen.
“This is your show, doll,” he says. “What do we do?”
“We head back to the locomotive,” she says, “find out if our conductor is still alive or if he’s suddenly dropped dead from a heart attack.”
The train takes on more speed. As Sam and Maureen pass through the many cars, some of the passengers who aren’t buying their incognito act reach out for Amtrak security professional or shout their concerns at her. She ignores them all, her focus is on getting to the locomotive as fast as humanly possible.
When they come to the first car, they step into the coupling enclosure and come to the metal door that separates the car from the locomotive. The door is secured electronically, and Maureen must punch in a five-digit code for the lock to release. Once the door is unlocked, she opens it, and together they step onto the metal gangway.
The cool wind slaps them in the face. The noise of the wind combined with the locomotive’s thundering engine is deafening. Stepping over the gangway onto the metal grate-like platform that accesses the locomotive door, Maureen attempts to open it. But she can’t. The door is locked. She turns to Sam, once again biting down on her bottom lip.
“The damn door is locked,” she barks, her voice barely audible over the tremendous noise. “It’s not supposed to be locked.”
“Somebody had to have locked it,” Sam shouts, recalling what sounded like a deadbolt being engaged upon his exiting the locomotive earlier. “Maybe Morgan installed a lock on the door as early as this morning. You’d have no way of knowing if it was there or not.”
She pulls out her radio, brings it to her mouth.
“Morgan,” she spits. “Morgan, do you read me? Over.”
It’s impossible to make out the static that is surely coming from the radio. She tries once more.
“Morgan, come in. Come in this instant. We’re going too fast. Do you read me? We’re going too damned fast. Over.”
She presses the radio to her ear and relays a bitter expression that can only mean one thing. Morgan is either incapacitated or ignoring them entirely. As a sky marshal and former Navy SEAL, Sam has been trained to trust his instinct, and go with his gut. And his gut is telling him that the latter is truer. Conductor Morgan has locked himself inside the locomotive and is presently ignoring Maureen’s radio transmissions.
Question is . . . why?
The train speeds wildly down the tracks. It’s going so fast, at times Sam swears the cars are actually lifting off the steel rails, almost like a speeding jet plane taking off. He might not be an expert on trains and how they work, but he senses that all it will take to run this train off the tracks is a sudden curve or deformity in the rails. His number one priority is to figure out a way to get inside that locomotive. Do it now.
Maureen tries the door again, but it appears to be bolted shut.
Damn, Sam thinks. Maybe there is no way inside that locomotive.
Bending slightly at the knees, Maureen cups her hands around her eyes, peers into the small, narrow safety glass that’s embedded in the door.
“What do you see?” Sam inquires.
She straightens back up, faces Sam.
“He’s in there,” she says. “He’s seated there at the instrument panel, his left hand gripping the throttle. He’s doing this on purpose, Sam.”
“Is there any other way inside the locomotive?” Sam begs.
She shakes her head and purses her lips.
“No goddammit,” she snaps.
Sam’s worst fears have come true.
Maureen’s eyes suddenly go wide. She returns the radio to her belt, then digs into her pocket for her smartphone.
“There’s a new text,” she says. “It’s from him.”
“Who’s him?” Sam asks.
“The conductor,” she says. “Morgan.”