Stone moved with the speed of a striking viper. He snatched the assailant’s wrist and forced it away before the man could react. Clutching the arm in a vise grip, he yanked the attacker toward him. His fist flew out to meet the man square in the face. He felt the satisfying crunch of the attacker’s nose breaking. The man yelped and struggled to get away. Stone grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head down, and drove a knee into his face. He went limp and collapsed to the ground.
It had all happened in a matter of seconds, but the train car was already filled with cries of alarm.
“Stone, what’s going on?” Alex shouted. “Are we in danger?”
“Take Trinity and get out of here.” Stone opened the overhead compartment and rummaged through his bag. His hands closed on the rucksack in which he’d stored the map and the notes he and Trinity had taken. Hastily, he stuffed them into his shirt and felt around for his Webley.
A boom reverberated through the cabin and the window beside him shattered. Someone had fired at him. In the muzzle flash, he spotted his pistol, snatched it, and hit the ground as another shot rang out. Stone dared not risk pulling the trigger here in the midst of the crowded train car. Instead, he kept low the ground, working his way backward, his weapon at the ready. All around him, people cried out in fear and confusion. Someone trod on his back and fell forward, colliding into another dark figure who shouted in anger and fired a shot into the ceiling as he went down.
Stone reached for the fallen man. His hand closed around the pistol and he yanked it free. The man uttered a confused shout and Stone drove the butt of the pistol toward the sound. He was rewarded with a solid thump as he struck the man on the skull.
Another shot, this time from the far end of the car. The assailants were growing desperate. Stone sprang to the nearest window. Still holding the captured pistol, an Enfield from the feel of it, he struck the window. His powerful blow shattered the glass on the first strike and he ducked as someone fired in his direction.
Not willing to risk hitting innocent passengers, Stone fired twice into the ceiling, hoping to make his attackers hesitate, and then squeezed his bulk out the window and swung up onto the roof.
Clutching a pistol in each hand, he dashed along the top of the car, heading toward the back of the train. The assailants seemed to know exactly what he was doing, because a hail of bullets ripped through center of the roof, shredding the metal and sending bits of shrapnel flying in all directions. Stone had anticipated this and kept to the side, well out of harm’s way. He sprinted to the end of the car, leapt over the gap, hit, and rolled to his feet atop the dining car.
“Come and get me,” he whispered. Up ahead he saw the lights of Charleston turning the night sky a dull gray. It didn’t provide much visibility, but it was sufficient for him to see the dark shape that clambered up onto the roof of the passenger car.
Stone flattened himself out but held his fire. If he shot the first man he saw, the others might remain down below with the passengers rather than exposing themselves to danger. He couldn’t take that chance. He wanted them all out in the open. A second figure appeared, and then a third. They all kept low, and looked all around. They forced his hand when a fourth man appeared from the doorway of the passenger car and climbed up the dining car ladder right in front of him. Stone punched him in the face, sending him tumbling to the ground, but the man’s pained cry drew the attention of his comrades who turned and fired as one.
Bullets whizzed past, one taking a bite out of the roof near where Stone lay. He didn’t flinch; he’d been under fire before. Instead, he fired off two shots in the direction of the nearest muzzle flash and then rolled to the side as a torrent of bullets buzzed past. This time he saw only two muzzle flares, telling him he’d hit his target. He fired again, two shots with each pistol, each aimed at a different target. In the dim light, he saw both men fall and roll off the moving car.
“Fine shooting,” a cold voice said from behind him. “But not wise to leave your back unprotected.”
Stone froze. He lay prone, arms extended in front of him. Not a good position.
“Please,” the newcomer said, “try and shoot me. I assume you’re familiar with the Thompson submachine gun?”
Stone didn’t reply. He knew the capabilities of the Tommy Gun, or “Chicago Typewriter” as some called it.
“Make one wrong move and I’ll fill you with so much lead we could use you for a boat anchor. Now, toss your weapons over the side and give me the map.”
“I’m supposed to believe you’ll let me go then?” Stone asked.
“I don’t care what you believe. Give me the map.”
Two things happened at once. The dining car door below Stone swung open just as the train passed between two steep hills. As the faint city lights disappeared, plunging them into darkness, Stone pitched the Enfield back over his shoulder toward the sound of the voice and rolled off the edge of the train.
As he fell, he caught the lip of the roof with his left hand. He dangled there, holding on with a powerful grip, as the man on the roof, taken briefly surprised when the flying pistol struck him, opened up with his Thompson. As the machine gun sang its deadly song, Stone took careful aim and squeezed off a single shot. The bullet flew true, and the man went down in a heap, his Thompson clattering to the roof and falling uselessly over the edge.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Stone tucked his Webley into his belt and, not a moment too soon, grabbed on with both hands. His fingers and shoulder burned from supporting all of his weight and he took a moment to breathe.
That was a mistake.
He’d forgotten about the open dining car door. As the city lights reappeared, he saw the gleam of a machine gun barrel pointed at him.
“End of the road, crumb. Give me the map or I’ll shoot you in the liver,” a voice said.
“Shoot me and you lose the map,” Stone said. Could he possibly keep the man talking long enough for a way out to present itself?
“We’ll go back for it and your body. It’s not a problem. Now...”
The sound of bone on flesh cut off the man’s words in mid-sentence. He pitched forward and fell face-first onto the tracks. A familiar form now stood, rubbing his knuckles, in the space the man had occupied.
“Stone,” Moses said, “you sure do get yourself into some situations.”