Ghost Ship

He didn’t know what had made him duck — some instinct long suppressed, maybe, some faint sound, an unfamiliar smell of grease and gunpowder and cologne. When he’d ducked the bullet that had been aiming for his head pierced the window instead.

Sam spun and got a glimpse of a man in a black coat and balaclava. He didn’t think. The same instinct that had saved his life and that made him certain he was supposed to be in The Hague, made him fire off the pistol with insane accuracy at the man pursuing him.

The bullet hit the man’s belly and didn’t emerge. Blood did though, a dark, wet stain on the thick, black coat.

Sam stood there panting near his empty drink and his crumpled paper, breathing hard in the empty compartment. Were more coming? What about the train employees? Christ. What about the passengers? The last thing he needed was a firefight he didn’t know why he was having, and in a train full of innocent civilians.

Sam wiped his face with his gun hand and found his hand completely steady. He readied the gun for another shot, just in case.

And just in time. At the end of the carriage the door opened revealing more men in black.

Sam spun for the doors at the opposite end of the compartment. He raced forward and hurled them open. He passed through them, and then with a grunt slammed them closed.

He pressed himself against the cold steel, panting.

Now what?

A bullet hit the glass inches from his head and he flinched. The glass cracked but didn’t break.

Sam stumbled away from the door and stood in the middle, trying not to panic, trying to keep his balance as the car swayed and rocked, hurtling over the Russian countryside.

Where could he go?

The train was a diesel, not electric, good and old fashioned. God bless it. Sam spun and looked for the service ladder and yes — there it was.

Another shot rocked the glass, and Sam lurched forward and grabbed the door. He hurled it open and shoved himself through, into the other car. The ladder would be the last resort then, he thought, as he gripped the gun, glancing around wildly.

Sam raced through the cars, one after the other, toward the back of the train, running past passengers, their screams and cries a blur as they stared after him. Some got to their feet as he shouted at them to get down, to hide, that there were gunmen behind them –

Shots broke glasses and hit walls with metal screeches and seats with muffled thumps, and Sam turned but couldn’t risk a shot hitting an innocent bystander.

He didn’t have time to count, didn’t know how many cars he hurtled through until he opened a door and ran out of track. There was nothing beyond, just a tiny platform and the stretching countryside streaking past.

Sam turned for the ladder up to the roof.

As the cars rocked, he couldn’t tell if it was from running feet or the jerk of the track. Sam grabbed the rungs with one hand, pistol held tight in the other, and hauled his way to the roof.

What he would do once he got there… he’d figure that out.

Even though it was summer in Europe the speed of the air rushing past the top of the train stung his face like ice. He staggered, got his balance, and looked back to front.

Then he picked a direction and ran.

He struggled across the slick roof of the train as the men in black emerged from the edge of the train.

The men mounted the roof and stood on it as easily as sailors stand on the deck of a ship. They lowered their weapons and fired.

Sam dodged the bullets desperately as he hurtled across the top of the train back the way he’d come. Now at liberty to fire with no innocents in the way, he shot and shot and shot.

Normally an excellent marksman, his unstable footing threw off his aim, and he wasn’t sure he’d scored even one hit before he heard the click of the pistol and knew he was out of ammo.

Shit. More men in black appeared and Sam couldn’t even cry. Here he was at the end and he didn’t even know how it had begun!

A massive roaring suddenly thundered through the sky.

Sam hung onto his balance and looked up.

A black Eurocopter AS350 hovered and bobbed, flying low, just above the train line.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Tom peered out the window at the silver line of the train under them amid the sprawling green. He clutched a Heckler and Koch MP5 sub machine gun and a Glock 17 handgun while Genevieve manned the controls at the front of the helicopter. She kept her eyes fixed on the train below, flying low. She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “We’re getting closer, Tom. This is it.”

Tom looked closer, struggling to see through the fog his breath created on the window. It was the right train, the right time table, but he couldn’t be sure as the helicopter’s speed battled that of the train’s.

Tom checked his watch for the hundredth time. This was the schedule they’d seen online. This was the train he was supposed to be on. It had to be. “That’s it!” he said. “Bring me down close.”

Genevieve pulled the throttle, reducing the gap between the helicopter and the train, carefully.