Mirror Image

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Squires peered through the last, thin puffs of tear gas out as they floated to the ceiling and then wound out the window and door. His eyes and mouth protected by gear that already seemed a part of him, his ears alert for danger, he ran to the cases stacked or strewn haphazardly in the rear of the car. He used his lapel knife to pry up the edge of one of the wooden crates.

It was money. Lots of it, the profits of suffering earmarked to cause more suffering.

Instead, he thought, looking at his watch, in thirty-two minutes it will be confetti. He and his mini-team would ride the rails another twenty minutes to where the Russians wouldn't be able to reach the train. Then they would hike toward the bridge as behind them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cars of this rotten bank would blow cloud-high. He experienced the flush of righteousness that Americans from Thomas Jefferson to Rosa Parks must have felt, the satisfaction and pride of saying no to something wrong, to someone corrupt.

Squires started toward the rear door of the train. As he was about to enter the second car to check on Newmeyer, his head was wrenched around by the sound of gunfire.

From the engine? he thought. How can that be? Grey wouldn't be shooting at anyone now that they were under way.

Calling for Newmeyer, Squires ran toward the front of the car, stepped into the black clouds that fierce winds were pounding down from the smokestack, and felt his way cautiously around the coal tender.

There had only been time for a brief burst, but Nikita knew he'd tagged the American. He'd seen the way his shoulder had jerked back, saw the dark splash of blood on the camouflage whites.

Nikita moved rapidly along the side of the locomotive. It seemed cut off from the rest of the train, which was hidden behind clouds of coal smoke and glittering particles of windblown snow. Upon reaching the cab, he lowered his gun and edged along the injector pipe toward the window.

He looked in.

The cab was empty. His eyes darted from corner to corner, which were ht by the dull orange coal fire- He looked up as a dark forehead and then the barrel of a Beretta poked down from the roof of the cab. Nikita dove through the window, catching a bullet in the back of his right thigh as the American sprayed the side of the train with gunfire.

Grimacing, Nikita squeezed his leg with his left hand as blood dampened the back of his trousers. The wound ached as though his thigh were in a tight vise, but what bothered Nikita more was that he hadn't anticipated the American going out the window and over the top of the cab.

The question was. what would he do now?

Nikita got off his back, putting his weight on his left leg, and hobbled toward the throttle. The important thing was to stop the train and buy his troops time to catch them.

His eyes shifted from window to window as he crossed the cab, the barrel of his gun raised, his finger crooked around the trigger. The American would have to come back in to start the train up again, and the only way to enter was by one of the two windows.

And then there was another sickeningly familiar thud and the cab erupted with burning white light.

"No!" Nikita bellowed as he shut his eyes and backed against the rear wall of the cab. The roar of the flash/bang grenades was amplifed by the close quarters and metal walls of the cabin. He pressed his hands to his ears to protect them, cursing his helplessness. He couldn't even fire blindly about the cab for fear of being struck by his own ricocheting bullet.

But it mustn't end this way, he told himself. Staggering toward the front of the cab, Nikita tried to use the side of his left leg to nudge the throttle back. But he was unable to stand on his right leg and, dropping to his knees, he put his left hand on the throttle. Screaming from the pain of the earsplitting blasts, he pulled the throttle toward him only to be pushed away by a hard boot heel. Nikita made a futile attempt to grab whoever was there, but clutched only air and light. He swung the gun to the left and right, hoping to strike flesh, to find his target.

"Fight me!" he screamed. "Coward!"

Then the brightness died and the explosions stopped and the only sound was the loud buzz in Nikita's ears and the banging of his heart.

Peering into the dark, the Lieutenant saw a figure slumped in a corner. The blood had crystallized from the cold, but he recognized the wound, saw that he had blasted several holes in the jacket but only one shell caught what appeared to be the outside edge of a bulletproof vest.

He raised his gun and aimed it at the man's forehead, just above the goggles.

"Don't!" a voice to Nikita's left said in English.

The Russian officer turned and saw a Beretta pointing at him from outside the window. Behind it was a tall, powerful figure dressed the same as the wounded man.

He would be damned if a lawless raider was going to dictate terms. Nikita swung his gun aroundquickly, intending to shoot whether the other man fired or not. But the man lying in the corner suddenly came to life, locking his legs around Nikita's torso, flopping him onto his back, and holding him there as the other man entered and disarmed him. Nikita grappled with the men, but the pain in his leg kept him from standing or putting up much of a fight. The newcomer knelt on Nikita's chest, pinning him, and used the bottom of his boot to kick the throttle forward, driving the speed of the train back up again. Still camped on Nikita's chest, he pulled off what looked like a rappelling belt and lashed the ankle of Nikita's good leg to a handle just below the window. The Russian could neither reach it nor escape, and for the second time that night he felt ashamed.

The two of them planned this together on the roof of the cab, he thought bitterly. And I stumbled into it like a sports club novice.

"Our apologies, Lieutenant," the man said in English as he stood and raised his goggles.

A third man reached the cabin and, after shouting in, was told to enter. He swung in through the window.

The new arrival tended to his companion's wound by the light of the coals, while the other man— obviously the group's leader— bent to look at Nikita's wound. While he did so, Nikita reached out with his left arm to try and push the throttle. The leader grabbed his wrist and the Russian tried to kick at him with his free foot, but the pain was too great.

"They don't give medals for suffering," the man said to Nikita.

As Nikita lay there panting, the leader pulled an empty rope bag from around his shin, used a small knife to cut off the strap, and slipped the band around the blood-soaked leg, just above the wound. He gave it a firm pull. He used another length of strap to bind his hands and tie them to an iron hook on the floor of the train.

"We'll be leaving the train in a few minutes," the man said. "We'll take you off and see that you get medical attention."

Nikita had no idea what he was saying, nor did he care. These men were the enemy, and one way or another he was going to stop them from doing whatever they planned.

His hands behind him, he used his thumbnail to dig the glass stone from his regimental ring. It had been designed to come free like that. It had also been designed so that a halfinch blade would pop up from beneath the stone when it came out. And with no one watching his hands. he began to saw against the leather strap.