Chapter 6 - The Ghost TrainThe abandoned railyard behind the municipal water plant smelled of creosote, wet rust, and stale diesel. The rain had slowed to a miserable, freezing drizzle that slicked the iron rails and turned the dirt embankments into black grease.
We hadn't taken the SUV. Roman had torched it in an automated bay two miles back, stepping out into a commercial laundry truck while a remote trigger turned our primary transport into a ball of high-octane scrap metal. Now, we were moving on foot through a labyrinth of rusted boxcars and overgrown spurs.
Luna trotted a few paces ahead, her nose low to the ground, sniffing out thermal signatures and residual scents before signaling us forward with a flick of her tail.
"How much further?" I asked, my teeth chattering despite the heavy wool coat Roman had forced me to swap my jacket for back at the safehouse.
"Ten minutes," Roman said, not breaking his long, measured stride. He carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder containing the encrypted transponder gear, a half-dozen spare magazines, and enough cash to buy a small island. "There's an old maintenance spur that connects to the freight line heading north toward Canada. A cargo train slows down at the switchback every night at 03:00."
"We're hopping a freight train?" I stared at him incredulously. "What is this, 1930? Are we hobos running from the law?"
"We're targets running from professional executioners," Roman shot back without a hint of humor. "If you'd prefer to catch a commercial flight, I'm sure Miller's facial recognition software at JFK would love to welcome you."
I clamped my mouth shut. He wasn't wrong. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the face of the man in the charcoal suit—Miller—smiling down at me while he took my picture.
We cut between two rusted hopper cars, the dark metal towering over us like monoliths against the grey pre-dawn sky. Ahead, the low rumble of a heavy diesel engine began to vibrate through the damp earth, growing louder by the second.
Suddenly, Luna froze.
Her entire body went rigid, every muscle locked like steel cables. She didn't growl. She didn't bark. She dropped flat into the wet cinders, her ears flat against her skull.
Roman instantly dropped to one knee, shoving me down behind the iron chassis of a railcar. He pulled his weapon, his eyes scanning the gloom ahead.
"What is it?" I whispered, my voice shaking.
"We're walking into a trap," Roman muttered, his jaw tightening until the muscle feathered.
From the shadows of the water tower fifty yards ahead, three figures stepped out onto the tracks. Even in the dim light, the charcoal suit and the unmistakable silhouette of Miller were unmistakable. He wasn't holding a rifle; he was holding an umbrella in one hand and a silenced sidearm in the other.
"Evening, Roman," Miller's voice carried across the wet tracks, smooth, confident, and dripping with venom. "I was wondering when you'd resort to the freight lines. So predictable. Sentimentality for old steel always ruins a good syndicate."
Roman didn't answer. He slowly rose from behind the railcar, stepping out into the open space between the tracks with his weapon leveled directly at Miller's chest.
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"You're a long way from Brighton Beach, Miller," Roman said, his voice cutting through the hiss of the approaching train.
"I go wherever the ledger goes," Miller smiled, taking a slow step forward. Two armed guards flanked him, their weapons raised. "And right now, that ledger is sitting right inside that mangy black dog standing behind you. Drop the piece, Roman. Let's make this clean. The girl walks away. You and the dog... well, accidents happen in freight yards every day."
