Winterlong

by Mason Cross

  Before I knew his hand had moved, I felt his balled fist slam into my stomach, knocking the wind from me. It was followed by his knee, jutting up. I folded, and he planted a foot in my gut, pushing me backward. Already off-balance, I was lifted almost into the air as he kicked me back from him and started to scramble to his feet. I landed on my back and got to one knee.

  The door between us creaked open, and a man in his seventies, with bedhead and bags under his eyes, started to step out into the corridor, his mouth open. It was like the referee had stopped the bout. Both the blond man and I paused. We finished getting to our feet as our eyes flicked between each other and the old guy, waiting for him to make a move. The old guy looked at me, then the blond man, then closed his mouth, quickly retreated back inside, and closed the door firmly.

  Suddenly, there was a blade in his hand, the moonlight from outside glancing off steel. I remembered the gun. I couldn’t see it in my field of vision, and since we were in a very confined space, that meant it had to be behind me. I took a step back, glancing behind me for the split second I needed to locate the pistol. It was ten feet from me, but my sparring partner was already rushing me with the knife. Split-second decision: I could either retrieve the gun or prevent him from gutting me. Not both. I fell back another step and timed my action to match his approach speed. I spread my arms to balance my weight, pivoted on my left foot, and slammed the heel of my boot into the side of his face as he bore down on me. I kept moving on the follow-through, twisting my body so the blade plunged through the space where my upper chest had been a split second before.

  His staggered off-balance, and his momentum took him past me on my right side like a bull sweeping past a toreador. Without thinking, I curved my left arm and swung it back hard, driving the hard point of my elbow into the base of his skull. It connected hard enough that I felt the jolt in my fingertips.

  I spun around in time to see his legs carry him another couple of paces before he slammed facedown on the floor, his limp arms not even twitching forward to break his fall. If it was an act, it deserved an Academy Award, but I was taking no chances.

  I crossed the space between us and stamped down on the fingers that were still wrapped around the hilt of the blade, then kicked it away from him. I stepped quickly over the body and retrieved the gun: a Glock 19. I held it on him for a moment, watching for any movement, and then I crouched down next to him. Keeping my finger tight on the trigger, I gripped a handful of the collar of his parka in my left hand and hauled him over onto his back. His nose had been broken in the fall, but he was still breathing through his open mouth.

  Gradually, awareness of my surroundings drained back into me. The strobing light of the moon filtered through trees and snow. The rattle of the wheels on the track. I looked behind and ahead, saw no one. The old guy in the roomette wouldn’t open that door again until we got to Chicago, if then.

  I turned back to the still form of my opponent. He was wearing a communicator: a slender earpiece and mic so subtle that I hadn’t noticed it in the fight. I pulled it off him and examined it: lightweight but tough, bone conduction technology for superior sound quality. There were two buttons, marked with a circle and a square. Pressing the square would let you talk to the rest of the team, the circle put you in touch with the base. I put it to my ear and heard only dead air.

  I checked it was turned on and attached it over my own ear. The earpiece was custom-molded so the fit wasn’t perfect, but it stayed in place. Then I patted him down. I found three different forms of fake ID—all in different names—including a Department of Homeland Security special agent badge that looked legit. I reminded myself it probably was legit, at least in the sense that it wasn’t counterfeit. DHS was a nice, convenient cover—the spaghetti dinner of government agencies that had been scrambled together to form an umbrella initiative to tackle terrorism on US soil was a very broad church. The badge brought with it a level of power and a lack of accountability that other domestic law enforcement agents would kill for.

  I took another few seconds making a thorough search, knowing I needed to move fast. I found a couple of spare magazines for the Glock and pocketed them. Finally, I found a cheap push-button cell phone. I didn’t have the time to examine it, so I switched it off and pocketed it, too. I stood up and turned back toward the doorway, hoping that Bryant had made it back to the room. I gripped my purloined Glock and held it low as I approached the next car.

  As I passed into the next car, I saw passengers sleeping on either side. I thought about tucking the Glock into my belt, but the attached suppressor made it too cumbersome. In any case, I didn’t really want it to leave my hand. Instead, I held it down by my side, trusting that the matte black finish wouldn’t be noticed against my dark clothing in the dim light. I moved quickly down the aisle. I made sure to glance at the occupant of each seat as I passed, on the off chance that Bryant had taken a seat. Another thought occurred to me: What if one of my pursuers was in here, hiding in plain sight? If so, they would have me at a lethal disadvantage by having the ability to recognize me. A teenage girl wearing Beats by Dre headphones glanced up as I passed, probably wondering why there was so much traffic all of a sudden. I gave her an amiable smile and continued toward the next car.

  This was the last one before ours. Another sleeping car. I was a third of the way along the corridor when a voice spoke from right beside me.

  “Kowalski?”

  I tensed up and started to raise my gun before I remembered I was wearing the downed man’s headset. Bone conduction. There hadn’t been a burst of static, and the sound quality was good enough to fool me that the speaker was whispering in my ear. I froze midstride, holding my breath in case it gave me away.

  “Kowalski, you there?” The voice sounded tense, on the verge of being concerned.

  I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice as neutral as possible. “Copy.”

  There was another pause, and for that instant I was certain the speaker knew what had happened. But then he started talking again. Excited, eager to convey whatever message he had.

  “We’ve got one of them—Bryant. We think Blake’s up ahead. Any sign? What’s your location?”

  Shit. I swallowed and took a step back. “Negative.”

  There was a pause, a longer one this time.

  “Kowalski? Is that you?” Obvious suspicion in the voice. And then a single word. “Midnight.”

  The word required a response. I turned and started running back to the previous carriage as fast as I could.

  “Rambler,” I guessed, figuring I might as well launch a Hail Mary.

  It was hopelessly off target. The volume of the voice rose, saying, “Who is this?” even though I was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that.

  “Kowalski’s out of action,” I said quietly. “Walk away now, or I can arrange a reunion.”

  42

  Stark’s index finger was pressed against the bud of the earpiece, trying to get a clear read on the other man’s voice over the clattering of the train. He activated the mute switch as he turned to Ortega and Usher. Ortega was jamming Scott Bryant up against the wall of the room with one hand. An entirely unnecessary precaution: one, because Bryant’s hands were securely cuffed behind him, and two, because the terrified look in his eyes said he wasn’t taking an off-beat breath without their say-so.

  “Kowalski’s down,” Stark said.

  Usher simply nodded, entirely unaffected, just processing the new information. Ortega’s face twisted into a pissed-off grimace, and he pushed down hard between Bryant’s shoulder blades, mashing his face harder into the wall.

  “Where the fuck is Blake?” he hissed in Bryant’s ear. “I swear to God ...”

  Bryant closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Stark sighed.

  “Think about it, Ortega. This was their room. We caught Bryant coming back from the front of the train. What does that suggest?”

  Ortega shrugged. “Blake’s tricky. You don’t know him like I
do.”

  “I don’t know him at all, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.” Stark opened the door a crack and glanced up and down the corridor to check it was still clear, then closed it and turned back to the others. “Ortega, stay here. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. If Blake shows up, put a bullet between his eyes. Kowalski made a mistake.”

  Ortega nodded and put the barrel of his Glock against the base of Bryant’s neck. “Make a sound and I’ll paint the fucking wall.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He nodded at the other two to go ahead.

  Stark opened the door again and stepped out into the dark corridor, Usher close behind. He walked quickly down the corridor, keeping his eyes on the doors. There were four cars ahead. Kowalski was in one of them, perhaps dead. And in that same car, or close by, would be Carter Blake, armed and ready to do whatever it took to survive.

  43

  The most important quality in my line of work is adaptability. Control what you can, but don’t expect to control everything. Make plans, but don’t be surprised when you have to tear them up and start from scratch. Don’t waste time on wishing things were different; deal with them as they are.

  The last couple of days had tested that maxim to the limit. Forget about plan B. I was shifting on to plan E or F by the time I picked up the transmission from Kowalski’s friend. So they had Bryant. I guessed there was an outside chance that whoever I was speaking to was misdirecting me, that he had known whom he was speaking to as soon as I acknowledged the call, but I doubted it. If there was anything I could still do to save Bryant’s life—and I wasn’t entirely sure there was—it would have to wait until I’d extracted myself from this situation.

  Five seconds after cutting the communication off, I was at the far end of the second-to-last car. I passed through the first set of doors and found what I’d expected to earlier in the night, when the odds of survival had seemed ever so slightly less impossible. There was a STAFF ONLY sign on the second door. Passing through it, I found that the space in the forward locomotive was truncated, to make room for the driver’s cabin up ahead. It was laid out similar to the sleeping cars, but with fewer doors. Staff quarters. Had it not been for the encounter with the man I now knew was Kowalski, I would have tried to find an empty one and hole up until we hit the next station. But it was too late for that now.

  The train swayed and the wheels clattered on the tracks. Already, I had a pretty good idea of what I had to do next, and I wasn’t happy about it. I glanced out of the closest window and tried to estimate our current speed. It was difficult, in the dark, with the snowflakes dancing across my field of vision on the diagonal. I thought we were moving a little slower than we had been earlier, but not much. Maybe forty-five, fifty miles an hour, down from sixty. And then I thought about who was behind me and closing the gap. They would be here within a minute. I had Kowalski’s Glock, so taking my chances in a gunfight was an option. It would be three against one, of course, but at least they would be hampered by the tight space. On the other hand, I could try to bargain, but that would be futile when it was so obvious I had nowhere to go.

  Nowhere to go, except one place.

  I stepped toward the door and examined the controls in the side panel. There were two large buttons: one to open, one to close the door. Both were inactive while the train was in motion, of course. It was an identical setup to the exit doors at the equivalent positions in all the other cars. I had spent a little time examining them earlier, making sure I knew where everything was, all while not really admitting to myself that I might find myself having to take this course of action. Above the buttons was a glass box with a button inside, like a fire alarm. The bold text beneath it said, EMERGENCY DOOR OPEN—DO NOT USE WHILE TRAIN IN MOTION. It was good advice.

  I unscrewed the suppressor from the Glock and put the gun inside my coat. Then I wrapped the sleeve around my fist and smashed the panel. The glass fractured smoothly and dropped out, leaving the emergency button unguarded.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I glanced back through the doors to see the doors at the far end of the next car opening and closing; at least two men were silhouetted against the light between the cars.

  I hit the button and the doors sprang out and open. I felt the sudden blade of a freezing fifty-mile-an-hour slipstream bite into me.

  44

  As the doors opened, the exterior footplate, tucked in to increase aerodynamics, automatically folded down. There was no time to contemplate the stupidity of what I was about to do. If I hesitated, my pursuers would be upon me.

  Gripping tight onto the edge of the doorway with my right hand, I put one foot on the plate and reached my left hand out for the handle on the outside. The wind slammed into me like a wall of ice. As I gripped the handle, I was grateful that it was coated with smooth plastic—had it been bare metal, the cold would have stripped the skin from the palm of my hand.

  Snow-covered pine trees whipped past. I looked down at the ground rushing past and estimated we were doing fifty, minimum. If I jumped now, I would likely be killed. But if I hung around waiting, the men with guns in pursuit would make that a definite. About a mile ahead of us, I could make out the beginning of a gradual incline—the train would have to slow a little for it, maybe enough to make jumping a better bet. But it would take a minute or longer for that to start happening, and I didn’t have that long.

  I stepped fully out on the footplate and switched hands on the exterior handle. The wind, catching the entirety of my body now, pulled at me, trying to cast me out into the slipstream. The noise of the wheels on the track was deafening, and I tried not to think about being thrown under them.

  I concentrated on keeping at least three points in contact with the train at all times. Even so, I felt the ache in the muscles of my right arm as I gripped the handle tight while reaching around the edge of the car. On a freight train, I would have had lots of options. There would be a clear gap between cars where one was coupled to the next, and I would have been able to sit atop the coupling, sheltered from the full force of the elements. But this was a passenger train, so there was a flexible cover to provide a passage between cars. I prayed for a handhold on the back of the car. I gritted my teeth as my fingers fumbled up and down the small, unseen area within my grasp and found only bare, freezing steel.

  I risked a glance back. The snow strafed my eyes, but there was no one at the doorway yet.

  I brought my left hand back around so I was gripping the handle with both hands, adjusted my grip, and moved both feet as close to the edge of the footplate as I possibly could. The car rocked toward me as the train entered the start of a long curve—a minute adjustment for hundreds of tons of train, but one that almost hurled me from my perch. I held my breath and gripped until the train settled into the curve and then reached around the back again.

  This time my fingers found something. I felt around the protrusion—it was rectangular with rounded edges: a rung. Just what I was hoping for, as long as there were more.

  Just then, a face appeared at the door. Gun raised. Without thinking, I gripped the rung, let go of the handle, and swung around the edge, gripping the rung with my right hand as soon as my feet had left the footplate. The wind caught me straight-on and tried to fling me into the air again, but I held firm and swung into the narrow gap. I heard a muffled curse from the doorway as the man who had seen me realized what had happened.

  There were three more rungs above the one I was hanging from with both hands. Their purpose was to provide access to the roof for maintenance workers. No big deal to scale a stationary train safely parked off-line and undercover. Quite a big deal on a moving and rocking train with snow coating the rungs, making them slippery. I glanced down and found a bottom rung, catching it with one foot and gratefully stepping the other foot onto it. Back to four points of contact.

  I reached up and grabbed the next rung, then the one after that, pulling myself up so my line of sight was above the edge of the roof. The wind hit me ful
l in the face once again, the oncoming snow streaming into my eyes. I squeezed them into slits and located a vertical rung on the roof, more by feel than by sight, and started to haul myself up.

  Then I felt fingers close around my right ankle and dig into my flesh. Too slow. I gripped the rung on the roof with both hands and put my weight on the other foot, trying to kick the hand free. The fingers held firm, so I shifted my weight onto my left side and tried another tack: dragging the hand with me, hoping the owner would either quit or lose his balance. At first the hand held tight, but then I felt the fingers release a little, shift to the leg of my jeans. I kicked again and suddenly I was free. I scrambled onto the roof, my knuckles whitening on the roof rung as I braced myself against the full onslaught of the oncoming wind. For a moment all I could do was kneel and hold on.

  A barely audible sound from behind me, carried to me on the wind, reminded me I didn’t have the luxury of time for a coffee break. It was the sound of my first pursuer’s foot on the bottom rung at the end of the car. I gripped the roof rung tightly with both hands and lifted my feet, bracing them on the surface of the roof in a crouch. I squinted at the track ahead. The incline was closer now, but still some way off. Shifting my focus to the immediate foreground, I saw more balance rungs jutting up from the center of the car’s roof. The middle section was a flat strip about two feet wide before the downward curve became more pronounced on either side. This was no simple and steady path, though, because the rungs were spaced at least fifteen feet apart, with nothing else to grab on to in between. But then, they hadn’t been designed for this activity.