Chapter Five

Jerzy Belaski rises from his place in the second coach car. Pulling down his watch cap, he steps into the aisle, starts to make his way along toward the front of the train.

He passes through a connecting corridor, steps into a lounge car.

Passengers are spread out, talking—drinking coffees and sodas. He eyes the packed snow clinging to the curving glass roof of the carriage.

Beyond the observation windows, nothing shows but the blackness of the night, striated white.

An attendant is in the aisle ahead, checking tickets.

Belaski makes a show of twisting sideways, looking to get past to where a handful of passengers are watching a movie.

“Sir, one moment,” the attendant says. “We’re double-checking numbers, making sure we’ve got everybody onboard.”

Belaski gives a hawkish grin, no warmth—his gaze flat, deadened.

“Can I see your ticket?”

He reaches into the parka he’s wearing, pulls out a square of printed card.

The attendant reads it. “You got on at Raton?”

Belaski nods.

The attendant studies the ticket, makes a note, gives it back. Unsettled by the man’s demeanor, he steps on down the aisle, avoids looking at him again.

Belaski takes a seat near the group gathered watching the movie. He sits a minute, his face turned toward the screen. Thinks of the sleeper cars, just beyond the diner.

Glancing back down through the lounge he sees the attendant step out, move on to the rear.

He stands, passes through into the empty diner car.

Kitchen staff are somewhere downstairs on the lower level, he can hear them.

Moving straight through without stopping, he reaches the first of the sleeper cars—roomettes lining either side of a narrow strip, then a center stairwell, a small lobby.

Beyond it, the corridor dog-legs right then left.

At the head of the stairs is a washroom—unused. He enters, locks the door behind him.

Unzipping the parka, he pulls off the watch cap, runs a hand through his dark brown hair. The figure looking back in the mirror is unsmiling; shy of six-feet, though most people think him tall. His eyes have a strange cast, an inner light. Almond-shaped, slavic, gray. His body is hard, his mouth clamped—at odds with the world.

Taking out his cell phone, he sees a network showing. He searches the list of stored numbers, presses to call, holds the cell up to his ear.

Jimmy Scardino picks up. “Man, what the fuck? I’m following the goddamn train—the hell are you doing?”

Belaski bares his teeth in the mirror. Wipes a finger under his long, hooked nose. “The road follows the line of the track...”

“You going to get this shit done?”

“It follows right till La Junta...”

“Get fuckin’ moving—or get off.”

“She’s with the man,” Belaski says. “The guy in the hat.” He reaches behind his hip to a cut-down holster inside the waistband of his cargo pants. Takes out a threaded-barrel SIG Sauer P226. “You got any other cars out there?”

“Are you kidding? In this?”

“Only you?” Belaski places the gun on the basin of the washroom. “There’s only you on the road?”

“I haven’t seen another vehicle in ten miles.”

“Watch for me, then.”

“You’re going now?”

“Just stay close to the train.”

Belaski shuts off the call. He slips a six-inch black, metal cylinder from his pocket—a suppressor. Taking up the SIG, he winds the cylinder onto the exposed threads.

He shoves the pistol into the front of his waistband, half-raises the zipper on the parka, checks the gun doesn’t show.

Tapping down his coat, he feels for the ski-mask in a pocket, pulls it out. It’s made of black fleece, with twin-eye holes. He rolls it part-way onto the top of his head, stopping just above his brow.

He puts the watch cap on over it.

Motionless in the mirror, he pictures the sleeper cabin half-way down the car. He can’t risk forcing the door, he’ll give them too much time to react. He’ll have to get the guy out.

He unlocks the washroom, steps out.

The lobby and the stairs are still empty.

Moving down the corridor, he takes the blind turn, listening to the sound of the train.

The sleeper cabins are in a line in front of him. He stops halfway along the corridor, studies the blue drape across a glass-panelled door.

He raps a knuckle against the glass, hard.

“Message for Miss DeLuca.”

He knocks again, harder still.

“Message for you, ma’am. Open up, please.”

He cuts away, jogs to the end of the corridor, steps around the dog-leg corner.

Ducking into the vacant washroom, he slips out the suppressed SIG.

He rips off the watch cap, pulls the ski-mask down over his face.

He holds the door an inch ajar.

Lines up with the SIG.

Whicher holds the barrel of the Glock on the center of the cabin door.

Lauren slips out of the jump seat.

“Get back as far as you can...” Whicher breathes.

She flattens into a recessed space behind the bathroom wall.

The marshal stares at the door.

Any shot will pass straight through.

He grabs at the edge of the privacy curtain, yanks it—the glass panel shows an empty corridor—a few yards visible to the side.

Nobody can be asking for Lauren; nobody on the train knows her name.

He steadies the gun, unfastens the fold-over metal lock, slides open the door.

Nothing.

Just the sound of wheels against the rails.

He counts a beat. Leads with the Glock, swings sideways, out into the corridor.

Empty.

No-one—nothing either way.

He moves toward the dog-leg, trying to widen the line at the blind turn.

He stops. Checks back over his shoulder—Lauren’s at the threshold of the room.

“Step back in, lock it.”

Pistol raised between both hands, he eyes the thin-skinned cabin walls; no protection.

He takes a breath.

There’s just the clacking of the wheels on the rails.

Above the drumming of his heart.

He called to her—he called out.

Belaski heard it—the man out of the cabin now, he was out, he was telling her to get back in.

He raises the SIG.

Curls his finger at the trigger.

Pushes open the washroom door.

Whicher sees the black, ski-masked figure—holding up a semi-auto.

He fires in the same split-second as the gunman.

Reeling, he scrambles to get back around the turn in the corridor.

There’s a muffled scream, voices—someone shouting in a cabin.

Staring along the iron-sight of the Glock, he hears a thump, feet moving—feels a strange sensation—sharp, cold air.

The sound of wheels on the rails is louder, now, above the ringing in his ears.

Something is open.

A door open.

Wind is rushing up the corridor, harsh, cold wind.

Leading with the gun, he forces himself to step around the corner.

Nobody is in the lobby—the door of the washroom’s open, no-one inside.

Whicher jumps down the stairwell, to the lower deck. Into an entry lobby, a tight, square space.

Black sky shows at one side of the carriage—snow swirling, frozen earth rushing by.

The door’s wide open to the outside

The marshal’s stomach comes up in his chest.

He spins around, lowers the Glock.

A carriage attendant appears at the top of the stairs.

“US Marshal,” Whicher calls out. “Stop the train.”