Page 138 of Crossover
Ignoring the protest of my battered body, I charged toward the next car, ready to end this once and for all.
77
GRAYSON
The door to the next car slid open with a metallic hiss, revealing a handful of passengers huddled in their seats, eyes widened in terror as they spotted the gun in my white-knuckled grip.
In an instant, bodies scrambled for cover, some diving to the grimy floor, others wedging themselves between seats. Trembling hands covered heads, and muffled whimpers punctuated the atmosphere.
I continued down the aisle. The train swayed beneath me, each lurch threatening to throw me off-balance, and my shoulder throbbed in time with the rhythmicclackingof wheels on tracks.
As I neared the far end of the car, a high-pitched squeal pierced the air: The unmistakable sound of brakes engaging. The floor vibrated more intensely, and I stumbled slightly, catching myself on a nearby seat. The deceleration was a stark reminder—time was running out. Each second that ticked by was another chance for Vosch to slip away.
In the next car, a small stream of people flowed toward me in the opposite direction, fleeing the car behind them. Their faces were etched in fear, their movements panicked.
The flow of people intensified through the next three train cars, until, finally, I stood just outside the last car. Peeking through the window, I couldn’t see anyone.
They’ve laid a trap for me.
I didn’t have a body to use as a human shield, and there was really no way to hide my entrance. The only thing I could do was squat down.
Taking a steely breath, I opened the sliding doors and darted to my right.
Bullets hit the window. Based on the sound of the gunshots ringing in my ears, they had come from the far end of the train, them men presumably hiding behind seats.
I quickly glanced around, looking for anything to help me. A fallen laptop case and a woman’s purse sat on the ground within reach. There were approximately twenty rows of seats between me and where I estimated Vosch and his men were.
Grabbing the laptop bag with my left hand, I took a deep breath and hurled it toward the middle of the car.
Predictably, one of the men bolted to his feet and fired at the sound of the bag crashing against a row of seats. He got off two shots before realizing his fatal error, staring at me as I pulled my trigger.
His nose vanished into a sea of red. He toppled forward, landing in the aisle with his eyes still open, blood pooling into divets of steel on the floor in satisfying gleams.
I repeated the same thing with the purse, but this time, no one popped up.
In fact, they seemed to be hunkered down, because even with two more attempts to lure them from their hiding spot—one with a fallen coffee thermos that rolled to my foot and the other a backpack I’d snagged in the next row of seats—they didn’t move.
They were biding their time, waiting for me to appear before them.
My pulse pounded in my chest as I advanced slowly, darting between aisles of seats one at a time to avoid flying bullets.
I made my way all the way to the back, only three rows from where I presumed Vosch and his man were hiding. Undoubtedly, they had listened to my every move, silently signaling to each other, waiting to pounce and take me down.
This is it.
Three seconds. That’s all it would take to determine the fate of everyone I loved.
I inhaled deeply, and with the musty, metallic scent of blood lingering in the air and the cool steel of my weapon pressing against my palm, I began the count, each number a death toll in the silence.
One.
I exploded from my cover, muscles coiled and ready.
Two.
My feet pounded against the steel floor as I charged forward. Then, I saw him—a flash of platinum-blond hair peeking out from behind a seat. Vosch’s goon rose in slow motion, his ice-blue eyes locking on to mine with cold calculation. The black muzzle of his weapon lifted, aimed squarely at my face.
Three.