Chapter 8 - The Northbound FreightThe interior of the empty freight car was pitch black, freezing, and smelled of old grain and damp iron. The rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels hitting the rail joints vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless metronome counting out the seconds since we left Roman behind.
I collapsed against the slatted wooden wall, my chest heaving, my hands raw and bleeding where the leather lead had torn through my skin.
Luna sat beside me, her heavy black coat pressed against my knee. She wasn't shaking. Her breathing was steady, her dark eyes fixed on the sliding door of the boxcar where a thin sliver of grey pre-dawn light cut across the floor.
"He's coming," I whispered to the dog, though I didn't know if I was trying to convince her or myself. "He has to."
The train surged forward, picking up speed as it left the municipal yards behind and hit the open rail lines heading north toward the Canadian border. Every mile we traveled put distance between us and Miller, but every mile also felt like a betrayal—leaving Roman alone in the dark with a half-dozen syndicate killers.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
The vibration of the train shifted slightly as it crossed a major trestle bridge over the river. The wind howled through the gaps in the wooden slats, biting right through the heavy wool coat Roman had given me.
Suddenly, Luna's head snapped toward the roof of the boxcar.
A heavy thud echoed from above. Followed by the sound of boots sliding across the wet corrugated metal.
My heart stopped. Miller. They had caught the train. They had tracked us across the rail network.
I scrambled backward, pulling Luna closer, my hand groping blindly for anything heavy—a loose bolt, a piece of scrap wood—anything to fight with.
The overhead hatch in the center of the roof groaned. A hand in a black tactical glove wrapped around the metal latch, twisting it open with a sharp, metallic snap.
I held my breath, pulling Luna back into the deepest shadow of the corner, my fingers trembling as I braced for the barrel of a rifle to push through the opening.
The hatch swung back.
A face dropped down through the opening, half-shadowed by the grey light of dawn. A scar across the left cheek, dark hair plastered with rain, and eyes the color of a winter ocean.
Roman dropped silently into the boxcar, landing on his feet with a soft thud. His coat was torn at the shoulder, a dark stain of blood soaking through the dark fabric, but his grip on his sidearm was as steady as ever.
May you like
He looked down at me, his chest heaving slightly, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Did you really think," Roman said, sliding the overhead hatch shut with a dull clang, "I'd let you steal my dog?"
