Chapter 5 - Blood on the Rails
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"Hey! Stop right there!"
The heavy bootsteps of the two hitmen thundered down the narrow aisle of the train car right behind her. Several startled passengers gasped and ducked down behind their seats as the taller man reached inside his coat, revealing the dull black steel of a suppressed nine-millimeter pistol.
Clara threw her weight against the heavy metal bar of the rear vestibule door and stumbled out onto the freezing iron platform connecting the third and fourth cars. The wind howled through the rubber accordion bellows between the carriages, smelling of ozone and burning brake pads.
She grabbed the handle of the fourth car’s door and yanked hard.
Locked.
The conductor had locked the rear empty cars for the off-peak run.
She spun around, her back slamming against the frosted glass window of the locked door just as the vestibule door behind her flew open. The taller hitman stepped into the narrow metal passage, blocking her only exit while his partner guarded the aisle inside.
"End of the line, sweetheart," the gunman muttered, raising the long cylindrical suppressor until the dark barrel was pointed directly between Clara’s eyes. "Mr. Halstead says he appreciates you keeping your mouth shut on the way out."
Clara’s hands gripped the cold iron safety rail behind her back. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs she thought it might burst, yet she lifted her chin and refused to close her eyes.
Then, from the dark service road thirty yards below the embankment, the twin high-intensity LED headlights of a matte-black armored Maybach tore through the freezing fog at ninety miles an hour.
The luxury behemoth didn't slow down for the rusted chain-link gate of the abandoned switching station. It smashed straight through the steel posts in a shower of sparks and flying snow, fishtailing across the icy platform before slamming broadside into the parked Cadillac Escalade belonging to Victor’s crew.
The impact shook the stationary train car on its tracks.
"What the hell—?!" the gunman in front of Clara cursed, spinning his head toward the frosted side window of the vestibule.
Before he could turn back around, the heavy steel exterior boarding door of the vestibule was wrenched open from the outside platform with terrifying force.
Lucian Sterling vaulted up the three iron steps into the cramped passage like an avenging demon.
He didn't say a single word. He didn't issue a warning.
Before the hitman could swing his suppressed pistol toward the open door, Lucian’s left hand shot out and seized the man’s gun wrist, twisting it upward with a sickening crack of snapping bone. With his right hand, Lucian drove the heavy steel slide of his own Heckler & Koch pistol straight into the man’s throat, then fired two silenced rounds directly through the hitman’s chest.
The man collapsed backward like a stone onto the shuddering iron plates of the vestibule floor.
Inside the passenger car window, the second gunman raised his weapon to fire through the glass—only for Roman to appear on the opposite side of the exterior steps and put a single, precise bullet straight through the center of the windowpane, dropping the second man into the aisle before he could pull the trigger.
The entire ambush was over in less than four seconds.
Gunsmoke curled into the freezing air of the narrow vestibule, mixing with the white steam of their breath.
Clara stood frozen against the locked door, her chest heaving, her hazel eyes wide as saucers as she stared at the man standing two feet in front of her.
Lucian’s dark hair was disheveled by the wind, snow melting across the broad shoulders of his charcoal overcoat. A tiny speck of crimson blood stained the sharp line of his jaw. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, clicked the safety on, and slid it back into his shoulder holster without ever taking his eyes off her face.
He looked down at the dead hitman between their boots, then back up at Clara.
"Your train was delayed," Lucian said quietly.
A broken sound—half sob, half hysterical gasp—escaped Clara’s throat. Her knees buckled beneath her all at once.
Lucian caught her before she could even drop an inch.
His strong, warm arm hooked securely around her waist, hauling her trembling body straight against the solid wall of his chest. Clara buried her face into the wool lapel of his overcoat, her fingers clutching desperately at his shirt as the shock finally crashed over her in waves.
For a long moment, Lucian didn't move. He stood over the body of the man who had tried to take her from him, one large hand cradling the back of Clara’s head to keep her eyes shielded from the blood on the floor. His chin rested against the crown of her dark hair, his jaw tight with a murderous fury that had only just begun to burn.
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"I got the luggage from her seat, Boss," Roman said, stepping into the vestibule and hoisting Clara’s small black suitcase with one hand while checking the pulse of the downed men. "My cleanup team is pulling up to the embankment now. They'll clear the bodies and have the conductor moving the train in three minutes."
"Good," Lucian murmured, lifting Clara effortlessly into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. "Because we have a long night ahead of us."
