What a brazen bluff. Not one that the thugs believe, however.
They hone in on Shelby’s voice and jog over, spreading out to surround him. Two guys round the corner of my boxcar, their eyes widening the moment they spot my shadowy figure. The next half second is filled with the burst of handgun fire. My Desert Eagle has a kickback that hurts my wrist, but I shoot the first guy in the jaw and the second through the knee. Bullets strike the boxcar, one clipping the shell of my ear before stopping dead in the hard steel. I feel nothing through the surge of adrenaline.
“There’s one here!” the guy with a busted knee yells, his voice half a scream of agony and half rage. He lifts his gun, and I shoot him again, this time hitting his gut. A bulletproof vest shields his soft belly from getting shredded, but not from the concussion. The tough bastard curls around his bruised stomach and rolls under the boxcar, a trail of bloody mud left in his wake.
I clamber up the last of the handrails and crouch down on the roof of the car, ducking out of sight.
I swear I don’t even take two breaths before a flash of light and an intense bang fills the rail yard. I’m far enough from the radius of the explosion—and shielded by the steel frame of the car—that I’m not disorientated, but I’ve experienced enough stun grenades to know that everyone on the ground is blind and deaf. A mild ringing fills my ears as I dig out my cell phone from my jacket pocket.
Maybe it’s because I’ve lived most of my life as a criminal, or maybe it’s because I’ve known a lot of crooked cops, but I’ve never trusted the police. I don’t call them. Instead I call the one person I trust, and the one person whose voice I want to hear if I’m about to die.
The phone rings. In the distance, I hear another round of gunfire. I don’t know how Shelby pulls it off, but he’s making two people feel like ten.
“Hello?” a groggy voice echoes from the speaker.
“Miles, I’m at the North Union Rail Yard,” I say with an exhale, thankful he answered despite the hour.
“Pierce?” Alarm replaces all hint of sleep in Miles’s voice. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
The next round of gunfire is closer than the last. I hang up the phone, unable to explain the situation in a coherent manner. He’s a smart guy. He’ll call the cops.
The harsh strike of bullets on steel is so close to my head that it hurts my ears. I roll away from the gunshots, my clothes soaking up the icy dew pooling on top of the boxcar. Shaken and uncertain of what I’m going to do, I glance around.
There’s a boxcar parked ahead of mine. I stand and run for it, well aware I can’t stay up long or else I’ll get shot from men on the ground. I jump over the three-foot gap and slip on the landing. Before I can correct my footing, I slide to the edge of the boxcar and spot the two guys climbing up the handholds.
I shoot at them twice, knocking one guy down and jarring the other enough to cause him to fall.
God, I wish Miles were here. Having heard his voice reminds me that I’m alone in this struggle. I have no idea what Shelby is doing—or whether he’s still alive—and it’s looking less likely that I’ll see the dawn.
Sirens in the distance cut through the night. Miles must have called them. I knew he would.
“Get to the van!” the lead thug yells. “We’re out of time!”
The rush of men to the vehicle is a relief. I shift back to the center of the boxcar roof, keeping out of sight. If they flee, I might live through this.
Another round of gunfire reminds me that reality hates my guts. I take one glance at the yard and curse under my breath. Shelby fires at the van as it peels away, hitting the tires and the driver with a few precise shots. The vehicle careens off its course and crashes into one of the steel freight containers, smashing up the engine block.
Does the old codger want to die? It takes all my willpower to restrain myself from yelling, Just let them go, you idiotic kook!
The fool keeps firing, building ire like he doesn’t care about his own well-being. When he runs out of ammo, he ejects his magazine and reloads within two quick seconds. He wields his weapon with the skill of an expert.
That doesn’t protect him from getting shot, however.
Shelby takes three bullets—one to the ribs, one to the arm, one to the shoulder—and then collapses to the dirt in a pool of his own free-flowing blood. When thugs come to finish him off, I take wild potshots over the edge of the boxcar. The men scatter and take cover before returning fire. On my third shot, I hear the click of an empty clip. That’s it. I’m spent.
“We’re leaving!” someone yells.
The roar and rev of motorcycles fills the area. I knew they had a backup plan.
The men stop firing at me and Shelby and instead gather up whoever they can and take off. One thug runs by and spots the goon with the knee injury, curled up in the fetal position by the wheel of a boxcar. The thug takes one good look before leveling his handgun at the man’s head and pulling the trigger.
No loose ends.
As the sirens grow louder, so do the men. They squeal out of the rail yard at full tilt, leaving through the opposite gate and driving down the dirt roads normally reserved for railway workers. The dirt they kick up leaves me coughing, but I’m not about to complain. This is a better outcome than what I would have bet on.
The
