19. Griffin #2
“Is it?” Her hand lands on my thigh. “Because right now, your pulse is racing.”
I carefully remove her hand. “That’s just my natural reaction to possible imprisonment and financial ruin.”
Elodie laughs, genuine this time. “You really are something else, Griffin McGregor.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re not what I expected,” Elodie says.
“Let me guess. You were expecting James Bond, got Mister Rogers instead?”
“On the contrary.” Her eyes travel over me like she’s memorizing every detail. “Most men in your position would be…taking advantage of the situation.”
“My position being…potential prison inmate if this goes sideways?”
She smiles. “I meant a handsome man, alone on a luxury train with a woman who finds him attractive.”
I nearly choke on air. “Subtle.”
“I’m never subtle when I see something I want.” She places her hand on mine. Her touch is cool, calculated.
I gently withdraw my hand. “I’m flattered, but…no. Just no.” I stand up abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” I announce, desperate to escape this awkward situation. “Too much champagne.”
“Of course.” She slides back to her seat, crossing her legs. “Don’t be long. We have strategy to discuss.”
I nod and make my hasty retreat down the swaying corridor of the luxury train car.
The bathroom at the end of the car is mercifully empty and ridiculously fancy. I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror. “What have you gotten yourself into?” I mutter. “Just wanted to play hockey, ended up in a spy movie.”
After a few deep breaths, I exit the bathroom feeling marginally more composed…until a man materializes from nowhere, blocking my path back to the compartment.
He’s tall and bulky with close-cropped black hair.
Built like a defenseman, with broad shoulders and a neck thick as a tree trunk.
His face is so comically fierce, if he were an actor, he’d definitely get typecast as henchman number three.
Right down to the thin scar that runs from his left temple to his jaw.
And of course he’s wearing all black, probably so he can hide bloodstains.
Also, he’s holding a knife, pointing directly at me.
Not a cute little pocketknife either. This is a serious, killed people in seventeen countries kind of blade.
“Um, I think you have the wrong guy,” I stammer, backing up slowly.
His face remains expressionless.
“Hockey man,” he says in a thick accent I can’t place. “You come with me now.”
“I’m actually good right here, thanks,” I reply, looking desperately for an escape route.
He responds by lunging at me with the knife.
I yelp and stumble backward, the blade missing my chest by inches. Thank goodness for goalie reflexes!
“Whoa! Personal space, buddy!” I shout, backing up as he advances.
He slashes again, this time aiming for my throat. I duck, and the knife embeds itself in the wooden panel behind me. While he’s yanking it free, I bolt down the corridor in the opposite direction from my compartment.
“Help! Crazy knife guy!” I yell, but no one seems to notice.
The train takes a curve, throwing me off balance. I stumble into an empty compartment, which turns out to be a stroke of bad luck as Scarface follows me in, closing the door behind him.
“Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I try, raising my hands in surrender. “I’m just a hockey player.”
“You talk too much,” he growls, reaching into his jacket again.
This time he pulls out what looks like brass knuckles, but with nasty little spikes on them. Great. Because the knife wasn’t enough.
He swings at my face. I duck, and his fist smashes into the window, cracking the glass. While he’s momentarily stuck, I dive between his legs like I’m sliding to catch a puck.
I scramble to my feet and burst through the compartment door, sprinting down the corridor. Behind me, I hear him roar with frustration.
The dining car is ahead. I dash through it, dodging waiters carrying trays of champagne and apologizing profusely as I go, because I’m still a nice Canadian, even when running for my life.
I glance back to see Scarface hot on my heels, now flinging what appear to be honest-to-goodness ninja stars. One embeds itself in a cheese cart, sending a wheel of Gruyère flying.
“Sorry about the cheese!” I call out, ducking as another star whizzes past my ear.
I reach the end of the dining car and burst through to the next carriage—a sleeper section with narrow corridors. Perfect for a guy my size trying to outrun an assassin.
I squeeze past a couple returning to their compartment. “Excuse me, pardon me, killer behind us, maybe lock your door!”
The assassin shoves them aside and pulls out yet another weapon. Some kind of collapsible baton that extends with a flick of his wrist. He swings it at my head. I duck, and it smashes into a light fixture, sending sparks raining down.
“Do you just have an entire weapons store under your shirt?” I yell.
Somehow, I make it through the door at the end of the car, finding myself on one of those little platforms between train cars.
Cold air hits me like a slap, and the ground below is rushing by at terrifying speed.
Is this where I’m supposed to climb to the roof?
Because my shoes have absolutely no grip.
Scarface bursts through the door behind me. His expression hasn’t changed at all. He looks almost bored. Like he’s thinking about his tax returns while trying to murder me.
Do villains file their taxes? I feel like that was a conversation James Bond had in one of the films.
“Can we talk about this?” I gasp, pressing myself against the railing. “I’m sure whatever I did to offend you, we can work it out like adults!”
He responds by swinging at my face.
I duck, and his momentum carries him forward. For one horrifying second, I think he’s going to topple over the railing, and I actually reach out to grab him because, apparently, my survival instincts are broken. But he catches himself and whirls around, now blocking my access to the next car.
“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy under all that leather!” I shout over the roaring wind.
He swipes at me again, and I jump back, my heel catching on something. I stumble, arms windmilling, and fall backward, and something triggers the door to open for me.
I land hard on my back.
This is another dining car, but a little less fancy, filled with passengers enjoying their lunch. Every head turns to stare at me sprawled on the floor.
“Sorry!” I call out, scrambling to my feet. “Just…enthusiastic about the dessert course!”
The henchman steps through the doorway, somehow making the simple act of walking look menacing.
In a panic, I look around for anything I can to defend myself and grab a silver serving tray off a nearby table and fling it like a frisbee. It spins through the air and…actually hits him square in the face.
He staggers back, giving me just enough time to sprint down the aisle.
“Sorry! Coming through! Emergency!” I shout, dodging passengers and knocking over some glasses. The resulting crash buys me a few precious seconds as the assassin has to navigate the sea of broken glass.
I burst through another door, finding myself in a luggage compartment. Stacks of suitcases line the walls, and there’s nowhere to go but forward.
Scarface appears in the doorway behind me, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose where my improvised projectile hit him. He looks annoyed now, which is somehow more terrifying than his previous blank expression.
“Okay,” I pant, backing up against the far wall. “Let’s be reasonable here. Whatever they’re paying you, I’m sure we can?—”
He throws a knife.
I drop to the floor on pure instinct, and the blade embeds itself in the wall where my head was a split-second ago.
“That was EXTREMELY unnecessary!” I yelp.
He reaches into his jacket and, because the universe hates me, pulls out another knife.
I grab the nearest suitcase and hold it up like a shield just as he lunges. The knife punctures the leather, stopping inches from my face.
I drop the suitcase and grab the closest weapon I can find, which turns out to be a pink Hello Kitty umbrella.
“Stay back!” I brandish the umbrella, totally not as calm and collected as Colin Firth in the Kingsmen movie. His umbrella was bulletproof. “I’m warning you;, this opens with ONE CLICK!”
Scarface tilts his head, unimpressed.
“You die now,” he announces.
“Can I at least know why?” I plead, swinging the umbrella. “Is it because I beat the Davos team last week? Their fans are passionate, but this seems excessive!”
He lunges. I sidestep. Barely.
“Can we just…”
The assassin takes out another knife.
“Seriously? How many of those do you have?”
I frantically look around for an escape route, but the door behind me is locked. Scarface is blocking the only way out.
“I’m really not worth killing,” I babble. “I’m Canadian. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done is eat gas station sushi!”
He cracks his neck left, then right in that universal bad-guy gesture.
This is it. I’m going to die on a luxury train in Switzerland.
I close my eyes and prepare for impact. They say right before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. But all I can think of is Anika. At least I got to kiss her. Once.
Then suddenly…CRASH!
The compartment door flies open behind Scarface, and a blur of red fingernails spins into the room. It’s Elodie.
She launches into a spinning kick that connects with Scarface’s jaw, sending him staggering sideways. Her evening gown somehow transforms into an outfit perfectly suited for combat, the slit in her dress now practical rather than just seductive.
“Duck!” she shouts.
I drop to the floor as she flips over my head, her stiletto heel catching Scarface under the chin. Ouch, that’ll be another scar.
He quickly recovers and swings at her, but she catches his wrist mid-strike, twists it at an angle, and follows with an elbow to his throat.
“Should I…help?” I call out, watching as she somersaults over his shoulders.
“Stay!” she grunts, deflecting a punch that leaves a dent in the metal wall panel.
“I’m not a dog,” I protest, then immediately duck back down.
Scarface, now full of rage, grabs Elodie by the throat, lifting her off the ground.
I scramble to my feet, ready to tackle him, but Elodie wraps her legs around his arm, twists her body, and somehow flips him to the floor.
But he grabs her ankle as he falls, pulling her down with him.
He’s on top of her now, throwing punches. But Elodie is quick, evading his blows.
I throw the umbrella at him, which bounces off his shoulder lamely, but at least it affords Elodie enough of a distraction to break free.
She grabs the Hello Kitty umbrella and cracks it over his head, snapping it in two.
Now I’m feeling sorry for the poor kid who will be very sad without her umbrella.
Henchman staggers back, finally showing signs of slowing down. But then he lunges at Elodie, catching the fabric of her dress and tearing it.
Time stands still as Elodie looks down at her dress and slowly looks back up at the assassin. Then with rage she had clearly been holding back, she pounces.
“This. Was. Valentino.” Each word is punctuated by a devastating strike. Throat, kidney, knee.
Scarface stumbles back, searching his pockets for more weapons. But it seems he’s fresh out.
Elodie catches her breath and with a steady, deadly voice says, “I’ve had quite enough of this.”
She kicks off her heels in one smooth motion, sending one of them flying directly into his forehead.
I spot a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall and make a dash for it. “Elodie! Catch!”
I yank it free and toss it toward her, but Scarface intercepts it midair and swings it at Elodie’s head.
She ducks, and the extinguisher smashes into the window behind her, cracking the glass.
“Sorry!” I call out. “I was trying to help!”
“Your help is noted!” she shouts back, delivering a rapid sequence of punches to Scarface’s ribs. He staggers back, momentarily dazed, and trips, arms windmilling, and crashes into the already-cracked window. The glass spiderwebs further but holds.
The assassin hangs suspended in the shattered frame, jaw slack with surprise. Then Elodie pokes him in the chest with one perfectly pointed fingernail and lets gravity do the rest.
With curses that fade quickly into the distance, he disappears from view.
Elodie stands at the broken window, hair whipping in the wind, looking like a model in a music video.
“Well,” she says, turning to me with perfect composure. “That was inconvenient.”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open. “You just…He’s…Did you kill him?”
Elodie brushes a strand of hair back into place. “He’ll survive. Probably.”
“Probably?!”
She shrugs, retrieving her heels. “Men like him. They are…resilient.”
I stare at the broken window, then back at her. “You pushed him off a moving train!”
“Would you prefer I’d let him stab you?”
“But…the…window…” I sputter.
“Yes, it is quite drafty,” she says, straightening her dress. “Come along, Griffin. We have a poker game to prepare for.”