Chapter 15
The sleeping-car doors hiss open, dumping us into a narrow hallway that feels about three inches too tight for two people and one dead man.
We take the very last compartment on the far end.
Smart choice. If we need a fast exit or Saint’s coworkers decide to start a fight, at least we won’t snap this train in half.
The walk is a nightmare. Our very dead, very bloated travel companion slumps between us, feet dragging, shirt leaking through the spare jacket we shoved on him back at Grim’s.
The jacket hides most of the mess and keeps innocent commuters from screaming about the smell of—well—death marinated in high-speed chases.
I lower him to the carpeted floor of our compartment, mutter something that might be a prayer or a curse, and go hunting for supplies. Anything. A few feet down the hall I check over my shoulder to be sure Saint didn’t follow me and pull out my phone.
Still no message from my broker.
Maybe less communication right now is better. I text the Chicago business name and Skippy’s real name.
Vincenzi Tower and Owen Liang.
My broker responds with a single thumbs-up emoji, because apparently my life has been reduced to cartoon hieroglyphics.
I shove the phone away and keep searching. The gods finally take pity on me. In an open luggage cubby outside a family’s room, I find a rolled-up sleeping bag. I whisper a thank-you to whatever deity oversees petty theft and corpse management.
By the time I get back, Saint’s kneeling beside the stolen suitcase she “liberated” earlier, rifling through it like a raccoon.
She eyes the sleeping bag. “What’s that for?”
“Finally,” I say, dropping it on the floor, “a body bag for our pulse-less friend.”
I unroll it, unzip it, and gesture at her. “Arms or legs?”
She takes the arms without complaint. I lift his ankles.
His body makes a “U” shape, and we make it halfway to the bag before the corpse lets out an enormous, wet burp.
A straight-up belch of the fumes collecting inside our puffy friend.
The smell hits first—sulfur, rot, and something that suggests eternal punishment.
I drop his legs so fast his heels thud against the carpet. “No. No. Saint, absolutely not. That came from hell. I am not—”
“Lock the fuck in, Alejandro.” She swears at me, snapping her fingers once. I wave my hands like I’m clearing a smoke bomb.
“You try holding this end next time,” I choke out, “and we’ll see how much you like getting a dead man’s burp to the face.”
“I’ll pass, thank you,” she mutters, pinching her nose.
We finally maneuver him onto the sleeping bag. She stands, grabs a handful of supplies from the suitcase, and heads toward the little en-suite bathroom.
“Open a window,” She nods her head toward them. “I’m going to shower.”
“Shower?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, slightly winded and definitely smelling like a mortician. “Need company?”
She doesn’t even look back. “You gave me permission to slit your throat. Remember?”
I grin. “That was on the other train.”
She shuts the bathroom door in my face.
The shower is trash. Water pressure like a dying faucet. A drain that gurgles like it’s protesting my existence. But right now? It feels perfect. Heat, steam, and the rare moment where I’m not hauling a leaking corpse or dodging someone trying to kill us.
My stolen suitcase came with a few blessings: a pair of jeans that actually fit, a clean T-shirt, even socks. Miracle-level stuff.
The bathroom, however, is roughly the size of a coffin. I can’t turn without elbowing the wall or knocking my head into the mirror. So, I towel off just enough to avoid soaking the carpet, wrap the towel around my waist, and step back into the cabin.
Saint looks up.
Her eyes drag down my still-wet chest, lingering on the drops sliding down my stomach, and land squarely on my crotch. She tries to mask it. Fails. The flash of surprise, the flicker of admiration, the reluctant appreciation… I catch it all.
I know exactly what kind of body I’m working with. And I know she remembers what it felt like against hers. The way we moved together. How well we fit.
And now she’s staring directly at my dick.
Danger. For both of us.
I turn away, keeping the towel tight around my hips as I slide into a pair of boxer briefs. Her gaze stays glued to me, and I can practically feel it like a hand.
“Shall I leave them off for you, Saint?” I ask, still facing away.
A pillow hits my back.
“You wish.”
“You were the one staring.”
I don’t bother hiding my grin as I pull on jeans, shirt, socks. The borrowed deodorant smells like cedar and questionable decisions, but it beats eau de corpse. I even find a travel-size cologne that doesn’t smell like someone’s dad.
I give Skippy a couple sprays for charity.
He still stinks. Even with the window cracked, the AC blasting arctic air, and the body zipped tight in a sleeping bag, the cabin has a distinct kick. The kind of scent that says yes, someone here is dead but tries to be polite about it.
Saint’s already stretched out on her bed, eyes on the ceiling, fingers laced behind her head. Fresh from her shower, she ditched the headband and let her hair spread wild. I’ve always liked her hair. One of those details you don’t forget about Saint James.
Among other things.
I climb onto the bed across from hers, sit with my ankles crossed and my arms folded. Guard mode. Comfortable enough to pretend this is normal.
“Get some sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll stay up and keep an eye on the kid.”
She scoffs and rolls over, giving me her back.
“Good night, Saint.”
She lifts a hand and flips me off without looking.
I laugh under my breath. “Good night, Skippy.”
Then I dim the lights, settle in, and let the rhythm of the tracks carry us forward while I keep watch over a corpse, a woman who might kill me in my sleep, and whatever the hell waits for us in Chicago.
Iabsolutely fell asleep.
I know I did because Saint kicks the hell out of my boot and my whole spine tries to escape my body.
“What the—”
“Something’s wrong, Sleeping Beauty.” she snaps.
She yanks open the cabin curtains. The dawning light outside crawls past us—too slow. Train-creeping-through-a-haunted-rail-yard slow.
Weapons are in our hands before either of us consciously reaches for them. Muscle memory. Kill first, ask questions never.
I crack the cabin door open and peek out.
Nothing.
Not good nothing.
Wrong nothing.
The hallway is empty. Silent. No passengers, no hushed conversations, no snoring tourists. Just the hum of the slowing train and the distant clack of metal on metal.
I check the window. We’re rolling through some kind of industrial graveyard—giant warehouses, shipping containers stacked like metal tombstones, floodlights still on despite the rising sun.
Every instinct I have lights up.
“We need to go,” I say.
“No shit.”
We both grab for Skippy. The second I unzip the sleeping bag, I instantly regret existing.
A thin rivulet of… something… slides out and trickles across the carpet toward the bathroom.
“Oh come on.”
Skippy’s abdomen is round and tight like he swallowed a beach ball. His shirt buttons strain, one hanging by a thread. His neck’s swollen. He’s seconds from popping like a goddamn pinata.
Saint gags. “I’m going to vomit.”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me cut his arm off. Fucking deal with it.”
I sling my rifle case over my shoulder while Saint throws open the cabin door, weapon up, sweeping left, then right. No threats.
She storms off anyway, shouting over her shoulder, “Get him upright and in the hall!”
I mutter curses in three languages and grab a dry corner of the sleeping bag. I’m dragging a human soup pouch into the hallway when Saint marches back toward me pushing—a goddamn baby stroller.
She parks it beside me like this is normal transportation for corpses.
I stare at it. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s better than carrying him,” she says. “He’s wet.”
“Fucking fantastic. Let’s get this over with.”
We wrangle his soggy body onto the stroller seat. His head lolls. His belly bulges. The stroller wheels give a sad squeak. Saint cinches a bungee cord across his chest. I test the rig by rocking the stroller hard.
It holds. “Huh, not bad.” I hate how impressed I am.
Saint heads toward the back of the car, gun up. “No assassins,” she calls. “For now.”
I move to the front to check the connection between our car and the others—and get my answer.
“We’ve been separated from the rest of the train,” I call back.
We’re drifting alone, slowing, until the tracks drag us to a final, inevitable stop.
Saint stomps back down the hall, pushing Skippy’s stroller like she’s taking him for a polite afternoon walk. “What a great lookout you turned out to be,” she snipes, parking Skippy off to the side.
She kicks open the rear door and steps onto the platform, staying back from the edge.
“Oh, it just gets better and better,” she mutters.
“What?”
“It’s a fucking hot dog factory.” She’s furious. Almost offended. Then she looks back at me, deadpan. “You’ll be thrilled.”
I pull back on my gun and check the round chambered. “Let’s just find another car to steal and get the fuck out of here.”