74. GRAYSON
74
GRAYSON
The train doors hissed open like a steel tomb, ready to swallow me whole.
“Where are you taking me?” I demanded as we stepped inside.
Vosch and his goons commandeered the front of the cabin, claiming the benches like thrones.
My gaze darted repeatedly to the train’s door, calculating my odds of being able to make it off before the train got moving, but a stream of passengers filled the aisles, settling into seats, unwitting obstacles in my path to salvation. Or worse, collateral damage should this all go to hell.
With a lurch, the moment for escape was gone. The train growled to life, wheels grinding against rails in an accelerating rhythm, the clack-clack, clack-clack a mechanical heartbeat pulsing toward disaster.
“Milwaukee,” Vosch replied.
“What’s in Milwaukee?”
“A safe distance between us and what’s about to happen in Chicago.”
My mouth instantly dried, his phrase— “what’s about to happen” —repeating in a loop in my mind. One phrase in particular— “about to”— sending an avalanche of ice over my spine. We knew he was planning something and suspected it might be on the “L” train—unless asking for the emergency protocols was only a test, and they were targeting somewhere else. But I’d been desperately hoping the intel was wrong—that we had more time.
Were precautions in place? Yes. But this…this sounded definite—and worst of all, imminent. Like it was going down right this second, and if that were the case, we should have evacuated all “L” trains.
And if they hadn’t changed emergency protocols the second Vosch had received them from me, his men would be one step ahead, sealing the fates of everyone on board. Women and children included.
Even if they changed protocols, it might be too late.
I had to get word out to the CIA. But how?
Vosch’s cell phone rang, and while he went through a series of mmms and okays …I searched for a method to alert law enforcement. Maybe I could reach the conductor and have him place out a distress call. Or maybe I could grab a cell phone from one of Vosch’s associates.
“Looks like the information you provided was accurate,” Vosch praised.
But there was no way I could race to the front without one of his men chasing me, armed and ready for a fight. If he killed the conductor, all the people on this train would be dead.
“I told you it was,” I said curtly. “Now, let me off.”
“I’m afraid the next stop is not for another forty-five minutes,” Vosch said.
Shit.
I couldn’t wait forty-five minutes to get help; people on the “L” train might be dead by then. I needed to act now.
First step: kill Vosch.
“Why are you doing this?” I shifted in my seat to face him slightly. In other words, to bring my wrist closer to his body. “It can’t all be about money.”
Vosch laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head, leaning back in the seat.
Shit. Maybe I’d have to go for his thigh, hope the poisonous edge pierced the fabric.
“Can’t it?”
“If you want to make money,” I managed, “there are far less deadly ways to do it. So, why this?”
Maybe I should just go for his cheek.
Vosch’s lips curled into a thin smile. “You know, there’s something people like you struggle to grasp,” he said. “We’re not all cut from the same cloth, but that doesn’t mean we lack ambition. Some of us just…see the bigger picture.”
“People like me,” I echoed, the words bitter on my tongue.
I couldn’t reach his face; his goon was too close.
What if I took out the guy closest to me? Could I grab his gun in time?
Vosch leaned forward, drawing his arm closer.
Patience will save lives, Grayson. You go too early, everyone’ll die.
“Let’s call it what it is—followers,” Vosch continued. “From birth, you’re molded into what the system wants. You’re funneled through their schools, pushed into cramped offices, scraping by on wages that barely cover your needs. All while the powers that be pull the strings, controlling the cost of your very existence.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Most never realize the extent of their captivity. But people like me?” A hair-raising smile stretched across his face. “We’re the ones who see the board, who move the pieces.”
A woman passed by with two children, her gaze lingering a moment too long. Vosch’s men shifted, their stares razor-sharp, until she hurried past, clutching her kids closer.
“So, this is about power.”
“Who doesn’t like to be a king?” Vosch asked.
He would see it like that, wouldn’t he?
“Kings don’t kill innocent people,” I countered.
“Don’t they?” Vosch challenged. “When they go after his throne or invade his land, do people not die in the wars fought for him?”
“So, that’s all this is? You want to feel like a king?”
No answer.
“But in your case, people like this”—I motioned toward the travelers—“aren’t coming after your throne. So, why do it?”
“Every business has collateral damage.”
I gripped my seat tighter, but I forced myself to calm down. I could not let my emotions get the better of me. If I did, I would be more likely to make a miscalculation.
Vosch shifted his position again, thankfully removing his hands from behind his head and bringing them onto his lap.
Much easier to reach. Two and a half feet, tops.
Even better, he began rolling up his sleeves to his elbows.
The act made my pulse accelerate with hope; it gave me more skin to work with, the first lucky break I’d had, really. By the looks of it, Vosch seemed to be relaxing, and I was keeping my calm—my emotions locked in a compartment to minimize the risk of doing something stupid.
But suddenly, I stiffened.
Because there, on his right forearm, was a scar I’d never read about in any report. The tattoo covering it, of a thunderstorm and lightning— that I’d read about. But looking at it closer, the lightning bolt wasn’t the red ink like I thought; it was actually a jagged lump of raised flesh.
As I stared, fragments of my conversation with Ivy flashed through my mind.
“The guy that tried to kidnap me when I was thirteen…”
My attention remained locked on to his forearm, the sleeve riding up just enough to reveal…
“…red scar…Z-shaped…”
The world tilted on its axis, my lungs burning, as if I’d swallowed fire. The realization hit me with the force of a freight train.
“It was you.” The words scraped past my clenched teeth like gravel.
The monster from Ivy’s nightmares wasn’t some hired thug, nor a low-level henchman sent to teach Ivy’s dad a lesson.
It was Vosch himself.
The monster in her nightmares was sitting right next to me.
The man who’d grabbed and attacked her, tried to shove her into that waiting vehicle, only to flee when Ivy’s father started beating Vosch’s accomplice.
Surely, Ivy’s father must have at least suspected Vosch was one of the men, right? Even though the abductors wore ski masks, there had to be at least a chance Ivy’s father had recognized him. So why hadn’t Vosch been charged?
Maybe they didn’t have enough evidence to bring charges, or someone helped bury it. Vosch had a knack for infiltrating, didn’t he? Or maybe, by that point, Ivy’s father was too scared to identify him to authorities.
Either way, Vosch got away with it. Scot-free.
My heart raced with a primal anticipation as my desire to protect innocent lives joined forces with my vengeance against Ivy’s assailant—crystallizing into a single, razor-sharp purpose. I may be trapped on this train, but so was he. And I would make damn sure that long before we reached our destination, I’d stop whatever he was planning.
And make him regret ever having laid hands on Ivy.