Dark Zone

104

Car eighteen had only dead bodies, some scattered luggage, and the large boxes blocking the aisle.

Dean took another step inside, trying to see around the boxes. They looked like the carts that the servers used as they brought refreshments to the first-class passengers; the carts had clearly been arranged like this on purpose, though Dean had no idea why. He tried to push one out of the way, but it wouldn’t budge; they were all linked together somehow. He had to hop over two sets of seats nearby to get around the boxes.

A man lay in a pool of blood near the end of the car. His skull had been battered so badly it looked as if it had been made of sawdust and blood.

Dean moved on. The doorway to the next car was around a bend; he dropped to his knees and looked around the corner.

The doorway was open. The next car was empty.

He went in, stopping every few feet to listen. If someone came, he would hide in the seats, preferably next to one of the dead people, and spring out as the person moved past.

He didn’t hear any more gunfire. They’d have finished their work and would be returning.

Dean moved through two more coaches. In coach fourteen he spotted a briefcase made of metal in the overhead rack. Thinking he could use it as a weapon, he stretched up to grab it. As he did, he realized he was exposed to the outside window and casting a shadow, just as the gunmen had. He took the briefcase down and dropped to the floor, crouching his way to the end.

So where were the gunmen?

Maybe they’d gone outside the coach and were checking along the sides or top of the train.

Or maybe they’d gone after Lia.

Dean heard voices approaching as he moved toward the end of the car. He slid into the last seat, hunkering against the window, the briefcase ready.

Two voices.

Another? Were there three?

He twisted his head, let his hand hang down, playing dead.

He saw the side of a man passing, submachine gun hanging lazily in front of him.

Wait for the second?

Yes. Here he was.

Was there a third? No, he’d seen two shadows. And he couldn’t afford to, not if there were only two — they’d be too far away.

Go!

Dean leaped up, aluminum briefcase held out before him like the battering ram at the prow of an ancient galley. The man closest to him began to turn. The edge of the briefcase caught him on the chin; the gun began to fire.

Dean threw himself forward and they were rolling and there was more gunfire.

Dean pushed and punched, barely able to aim his blows. He could taste blood and heard bullets rumbling, but he had no sense of the fight beyond what his fists and head felt. The terrorist slammed and kicked, tried to wrestle the gun from under his body, tried to writhe away. Dean gripped him and pushed down, slamming at his head, wrestling and finding his enemy’s head in his hands.

Finally, there was no more fight left in the other man. Dean had no sense of whether he’d killed him or merely stunned him. He threw himself forward toward the gun that had fallen. He scooped it up, aiming down the car, but the other terrorist had fled.

Just as well. The submachine gun, an H&K MP-5, was empty.