Chapter 2 - The Scent of Cordite in the Indiana PinesThe violent jolt of the pneumatic brakes sent the lead contractor crashing against the mahogany paneling of the corridor. Outside the narrow train windows, pitch-black pines whipped past before freezing into stillness, shrouded in an icy October mist.
Elena stumbled forward, but Dante caught her around the waist with one thick, unyielding arm, absorbing the momentum effortlessly.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered.
The lead hitman scrambled to his feet in the aisle, reaching toward his ankle holster.
Dante didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger of the suppressed pistol once. A dull thwip spat from the muzzle, drilling a hole through the man’s kneecap. The operative collapsed with a stifled howl of agony, clawing at the runner carpet.
“Who cut the air line on the locomotive?” Dante demanded, stepping into the hallway and planting his heavy boot squarely across the man’s throat.
“Reinforcements...” the operative gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. “Four SUVs staged at the timber crossing mile-marker forty-two. They used an electronic shunt on the track switch... Giselle promised three hundred thousand if we brought her the flash drive.”
Dante kicked the man senseless, took both weapons, and slid the extra magazine into his pocket. He turned back into the sleeper compartment.
Elena sat on the velvet bench, trembling violently, clutching the water-damaged leather binder against her ribs. Her knuckles were bone-white.
“Can you run?” Dante asked.
“I’ve been running for six hours,” she whispered, wiping a smear of dark engine grease from her temple. “I can run another six miles if it keeps me away from them.”
Dante studied her face. Beneath the dirt, exhaustion, and scratches, her jaw was set with remarkable, stubborn grit. An ordinary corporate accountant would have surrendered the moment guns were pulled in the aisle. Elena Cross had survived a drowning attempt, an ambush at Union Station, and a rail pursuit across state lines without surrendering a single page of evidence.
“Take this,” Dante said, stripping off his heavy cashmere coat and wrapping it over her shoulders. The wool was warm, smelling of clean cedar, crisp rain, and faint gunpowder.
He kicked open the exterior emergency door of the sleeper car. Freezing midnight air rushed into the carriage, bringing the sharp scent of wet pine needles and distant diesel exhaust.
Through the mist, high-intensity halogen beams flickered through the trees two hundred yards down the embankment. Four black Suburbans had already cut their engines at the railway crossing.
Dante jumped down into the wet gravel, extending his hand. Elena took it without hesitation, landing lightly against the embankment.
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“Where are we going?” she whispered as headlights began sweeping the tree line behind them.
“My private hunting estate on the Indiana dunes,” Dante replied, leading her into the dark woods. “A place where Giselle Vance’s blood money carries no weight.”
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