Dark Zone

been made of sawdust and blood.

Dean moved on. The doorway to the next car was around a bend; he dropped to his knees and looked around the corner.

The doorway was open. The next car was empty.

He went in, stopping every few feet to listen. If someone came, he would hide in the seats, preferably next to one of the dead people, and spring out as the person moved past.

He didn’t hear any more gunfire. They’d have finished their work and would be returning.

Dean moved through two more coaches. In coach fourteen he spotted a briefcase made of metal in the overhead rack. Thinking he could use it as a weapon, he stretched up to grab it. As he did, he realized he was exposed to the outside window and casting a shadow, just as the gunmen had. He took the briefcase down and dropped to the floor, crouching his way to the end.

So where were the gunmen?

Maybe they’d gone outside the coach and were checking along the sides or top of the train.

Or maybe they’d gone after Lia.

Dean heard voices approaching as he moved toward the end of the car. He slid into the last seat, hunkering against the window, the briefcase ready.

Two voices.

Another? Were there three?

He twisted his head, let his hand hang down, playing dead.

He saw the side of a man passing, submachine gun hanging lazily in front of him.

Wait for the second?

Yes. Here he was.

Was there a third? No, he’d seen two shadows. And he couldn’t afford to, not if there were only two — they’d be too far away.

Go!

Dean leaped up, aluminum briefcase held out before him like the battering ram at the prow of an ancient galley. The man closest to him began to turn. The edge of the briefcase caught him on the chin; the gun began to fire.

Dean threw himself forward and they were rolling and there was more gunfire.

Dean pushed and punched, barely able to aim his blows. He could taste blood and heard bullets rumbling, but he had no sense of the fight beyond what his fists and head felt. The terrorist slammed and kicked, tried to wrestle the gun from under his body, tried to writhe away. Dean gripped him and pushed down, slamming at his head, wrestling and finding his enemy’s head in his hands.

Finally, there was no more fight left in the other man. Dean had no sense of whether he’d killed him or merely stunned him. He threw himself forward toward the gun that had fallen. He scooped it up, aiming down the car, but the other terrorist had fled.

Just as well. The submachine gun, an H&K MP-5, was empty.

105

The woman kicked and bit and punched at him. Donohue struggled, but her ferocity had caught him off- guard; he tripped and fell backward, managing only to push her away. He leaped backward, took two, three steps, and set himself for her attack.

Fortunately, she didn’t follow.

“Who are you?” the woman hissed between breaths. The accent was American.

“Who are you?” he answered.

“Why did you blow up the train?”

“I didn’t,” he said, surprised. “You’re not one of the terrorists?”

She was silent.

“Were you a passenger?” he asked.

“Yes. Are you one of the policemen?” she asked.

He considered how to answer the question. A policeman would have more authority, certainly, and pretending to be one now was tempting. But it might be difficult to explain later.

If it mattered.

“No. I’m just a passenger. I jumped off the train,” he said. “Terrorists blew it apart.”

“I know,” said the woman. “Why did you attack me?”

“I thought you were one of them,” he said. He wasn’t lying. “I didn’t see you until you were just about on me — I didn’t think anyone could be alive.”

“We have to get to help,” she said.

“How?” Donohue asked.

“Maybe there’s something inside this tunnel. Through the passage. There’s a service tunnel in the middle of the two tubes.”

“What about the people who blew up the train?” he said.

“They unhooked the engine. I think they left.”

“They left?” Donohue felt his anger flare, then drain away — Mussa had managed to escape.

Escape!

Better than he would do, unless he figured something out.

“Come on,” said the woman. “Let’s see if this entrance goes anywhere.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, noticing that she was limping.

“I’m all right.”

There were probably dozens of ways out of the service tunnel. If he lived, he would get Mussa. For that he would trade his life. He would strangle the bloody bastard with his bare hands. Oh, that would be delicious.

Who would blame him? He’d be a national hero. The Queen might even knight him… before throwing him in prison for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said.

“You almost killed me,” said the woman, moving ahead in the passage. “I have a penlight on my key chain. Come on.”

106

Dean found a magazine for the submachine gun in the terrorist’s belt.

The man was still breathing; a quick kiss of the trigger took care of that.

Dean stepped over the body, moving in the direction the other man had gone.

Had he fled in fear? Or was he out of bullets, without even a spare like his friend?

Dean stopped at the vestibule, listening. When he thought he heard a creak in the next car, he threw himself inside, firing a burst from the gun as something flicked at the edge of his peripheral vision. In the same motion he dove to the ground, rolled, ready, waiting.

But there was nothing.

Dean got to his hands and knees and moved forward slowly. He paused about midway, listening. When he started again the front of the car lit up with gunfire. Diving into the nearby seats, he could almost feel the bullets zipping overhead.

The burst was long; Dean suspected it was covering an advance and got ready. When it stopped he made a feint with the gun toward the aisle and drew more fire. This time the burst was much briefer. When it ended he held the gun up and fired a few rounds toward the back of the car, then burst out into the aisle, gun blazing, throwing himself across to the other side.