His back hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h, and his left shoulder stung, as if from some sort of cut. Everything else felt in working order. He took a moment to figure the best escape from the wreckage before rising in an odd sort of cobra push-up to move the door and other debris off both of them.

He rolled off Sa.s.sy toward what had been the bed, resting on his knees beside her. The moonlight was now a vivid silver. The window, though not broken up completely in the crash, had a spider's web of cracks running all across it that seemed to amplify the light.

He sat back on his knees and looked Sa.s.sy over. There was a cut just above her temple, at the hairline. It didn't look deep, but it was bleeding like mad as most head injuries were p.r.o.ne to do.

Before the crash, his backpack had been hooked over an arm of the reclining chair by the window. When he turned to look for it, he noted the strain in his lower back. The chair wasn't there anymore. There was simply a metal spike poking up from the floor of the car.

Miraculously, his pack was there, too, underneath a broken armrest and other debris. He grabbed for it and pulled the padded strap onto his shoulder, despite the discomfort. The duffel bag was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't matter. Once he got Sa.s.sy away from the wreckage, he would see to her head and any other injuries. He tried to stand but found it challenging in what had now become a very confined s.p.a.ce.

"Sa.s.sy?" He touched her face. She still wasn't moving. "Sa.s.sy, baby, wake up." He heard the thread of panic in his voice.

Bryan Fisher, who never got rattled, was flipping out. Nick and Leland would give him h.e.l.l if they could see him. And he'd happily take all their s.h.i.t and more if he had one of those guys here with him to help.

He could smell smoke . . . and gasoline. There had been an automotive railcar several cars back. He'd seen more than a dozen vehicles loaded after their stop in Washington, D.C. Since they'd derailed, there was no telling where those vehicles were now. He had to get Sa.s.sy out.

Still hunched over her, he looked around for the quickest exit. Their compartment was a ticking time bomb of a death trap. He pushed more debris away and stood. Balancing on one foot, he cleared the remaining rubble off her body. A metal pole with the circ.u.mference of a wide broom handle was across her lower legs. He had no clue where that had come from, but he picked it up and moved through the wreckage to the intact window.

Smoke was now curling around his feet, lending an even greater urgency to the task. Where was it coming from? Holding the metal pole like a baseball bat, he slammed it against the gla.s.s.

He glanced back at Sa.s.sy.

Still no movement.

His throat was dry with fear. She's okay. She has to be okay.

He whacked the window again, and it gave way. Shards of gla.s.s made a musical-like tinkling sound that was at odds with the piteous screams and moans around them.

More smoke filled the room, but the fresh air did as well. He heard the sizzle and hiss of flames but couldn't see the actual fire yet. He hurried back to Sa.s.sy, wincing as he bent over her. With his back hurt, he wasn't sure he could safely carry her. The last thing she needed was for him to drop her.

The smell of gasoline was stronger. From behind them, an orange light suddenly flickered across the wreckage in the broken hallway of the car. This thing could explode any moment. His gaze fell on the door now lying across the bed.

That could work.

He took the thin metal door and balanced it on the ledge of the window, then shoved Sa.s.sy's body on top of the door like a bizarre teeter-totter. He looked out the window to double-check. With the car listing to the side, it was only about a four-foot drop to the ground.

Smoke poured into their compartment. Despite the open window, he was choking. Sa.s.sy'd be okay . . . as long as she didn't hit her head.

f.u.c.k.

He couldn't think about that now. Holding onto the door with one hand, he took one of the cushions that had flown around the compartment earlier and placed it under the door.

Balancing Sa.s.sy precariously with one hand holding the door, he slipped his backpack off the other shoulder and tossed it out the window away from the train. Still holding onto the door, he slipped over the side of the ledge, only letting go of the door when he dropped to the ground. The jolt jarred his entire body, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

s.h.i.t. He might be hurt worse than he'd thought.

The orange glow of the flames was quite visible now, licking along the ceiling of their trashed compartment. For a moment the door and Sa.s.sy remained perfectly balanced on the train's window ledge, then it began to tip toward the ground. He stepped in front of the door, catching Sa.s.sy before she could slide onto the rocky terrain.

He went to his knees and knelt a moment with her sprawled across his lap. He glanced over at his backpack a few feet away and weighed the pros and cons of leaving it. Their pa.s.sports were in it, along with his weapons. Not an option. He'd just have to move his a.s.s.

G.o.d, why was he so incapacitated? He was used to running miles at a time for PT and lifting weights. What was wrong with him? He looked back up at the window, now completely engulfed in flames.

This wasn't over. They needed to get away from the train. Sa.s.sy was still out cold. He gently laid her on the ground and went for the backpack, settling it on both shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he lifted her back into his arms.

Sa.s.sy was ridiculously light, a good thing in this situation. The ground around the train track was covered with rocks, but he couldn't take his time to pick a way through the rough terrain. He was thankful again for the full moon and thin cloud cover.

Fires burned from the wreckage all around them and pa.s.sengers moved about, some more slowly than others. At least six cars had derailed. With Sa.s.sy in his arms, he walked at a right angle to the track, putting as much distance between himself and the flames as possible. He had no idea how volatile the other cars might be. She moaned when he set her down in a field about fifty yards from the devastation.

It was like every derailment photograph he'd ever seen with the immediacy of being there in person. The sights, the sounds, and the smells were all too real. The back of the train appeared to be untouched, while the front looked like he imagined a model train would if an angry toddler stomped on the engine then beat the front cars with a baseball bat.

From where they stood, some pieces of the wreck were unrecognizable as part of a train. Bryan swallowed hard. He couldn't do anything for those folks.

"Sa.s.sy? Can you hear me?" He picked up her hand and started rubbing it between his fingers.

It was d.a.m.n cold out here, and their coats were somewhere back in that mora.s.s of twisted metal. Bryan marveled over how the tail of the train was completely stable, with cars still on the tracks. He was considering the possibility of going back for a blanket or something from one of those stable cars when a rumbling explosion detonated toward the back of the wreckage.

Shrieking metal was drowned out by a thunderous roar as what could only be an automotive railcar was caught up in the conflagration, resulting in a small mushroom cloud. Even from fifty yards away, the concussion knocked him on his a.s.s, jarring his back once again.

Where the h.e.l.l had that come from?

He sat up slowly, staring at the carnage. That part of the train hadn't even been involved in the accident. Now it was completely obliterated, just like . . .

Jesus. It looked just like bombing attacks he'd seen in Afghanistan. Flames stretched toward the sky from the ruins, and what could only be bodies lay beside the tracks.

What was going on? He had no idea where they were. He wasn't even sure what time it was. He'd been cross-eyed when they'd boarded at Richmond. The only upside was that Sa.s.sy was awake, blinking and looking at him in total bewilderment.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"You remember the train?"

"Train?" She wrinkled her brow. "I remember . . ." She stopped talking. Even in the shadows he recognized her discomfort as she recalled exactly what they'd been doing before the train wreck.

"What happened?" Her voice was flat.

"The train derailed. Must have hit something at the crossing. Ten minutes later, the back end of the whole thing exploded."

And just like that, he knew this had been about them. It sounded paranoid, but no one survived doing the things he'd done in the Middle East if they didn't consider the outrageous options. And what he was thinking was fantastically outrageous.

Still, you weren't paranoid if they truly were out to get you. This had to be related to the events in Africa. Otherwise, who could be this unlucky-to board a train that derailed, then spontaneously blew to kingdom come?

Wild, improbable thoughts swirled in his head as he looked down at Sa.s.sy. She was still trying to shake loose the cobwebs and figure out what the h.e.l.l was happening, too. Her sweater was torn, her face was bleeding, and it was cold as h.e.l.l.

When he glanced down at his phone, he could see his breath on the night air. He should call Leland, but he wasn't going to do it. Something wasn't right.

While he didn't think Leland was dirty, he did suspect some part of their communications had been compromised. Bryan had texted him right after they'd boarded in Richmond. Leland was the only one who knew he and Sa.s.sy were on this particular train. Barring outright betrayal, corrupted communication was the only explanation for this cl.u.s.ter. So what Bryan was thinking was beyond all reason. He couldn't tell anyone yet, or they just might put him in a straightjacket.

But first things first.

He had to get them out of here before he could do anything about his suspicions. He studied the darkened field. People were rushing in all directions, away from the wreckage, while a few were gathering behind the train about forty yards beyond where he and Sa.s.sy were.

Bryan's instinct was to go to ground, but Sa.s.sy needed help. He glanced at his watch. It was 1:00 AM.

Sirens sounded in the distance. They must be near a town. He just wasn't sure which one. Sa.s.sy's head worried him. He needed to get her looked after before he did anything else.

"Let's see if we can join those other folks," he said. "Think you can walk?"

"Of course I can." She tried to sit up and snorted a grim laugh. "If you help me up, that is."

They started toward the knot of tattered travellers, pa.s.sing the more extreme devastation along the way. Bryan put his arm around her waist and held on across the uneven ground. Acrid-smelling smoke was thick in the air. They approached two bodies, a man and a woman. It looked as if they'd dragged themselves to this point and just stopped.

"I have to check them, Sa.s.sy."

He bent down and put his fingers on the woman's neck, then the man's. Neither had a pulse. He shook his head and sighed. G.o.d, this all felt so horribly familiar.

Without speaking he straightened, put his hand back around Sa.s.sy's waist, and kept walking up and down over the furrows in the field. The remains of whatever crop had grown there this fall stuck up from the cold surface of the dirt like an old man's stubbly beard.

A little farther ahead, a dozen pa.s.sengers huddled together. Four others were either sitting or lying on the ground beside the group and being tended. Several of the survivors were staring off into s.p.a.ce. One was cradling an ominously silent toddler. The sirens grew louder; lights splashed color across the field from a distance.

"Where are we?" Bryan asked as they approached the group.

An older man answered. "We're outside Kingstree, South Carolina, near as I can tell."

Kingstree.

The name tickled the back of his memory, but Bryan couldn't recall how he'd heard of the place.

The man smiled at his blank look. "It's a small town. Population's a little over three thousand. Agriculture community mostly. Tobacco and cotton. We're near the Francis Marion National Forest."

Bear Bennett. That's how he'd heard of it. d.a.m.n. Of all places. But Bear was the last person Bryan needed to be worrying about right now.

Bryan nodded to cover his surprise. "You sound like you know the area. How far are we from Charleston?"

"I work for the South Carolina Board of Tourism. I know all the little towns. We're about seventy-five miles up the road from Charleston." The man pulled his coat more tightly around himself. "You and your woman okay?"

Bryan started at the man's question, but beside him, Sa.s.sy didn't respond. His woman? He'd never thought of her that way before, having shied away from possessive thoughts of any kind where Sa.s.sy was concerned. Tonight he found the idea comforting and fitting. Sa.s.sy remained silent as the older man waited expectantly.

"She was unconscious for a while. I expect she's got a concussion," said Bryan. "We were lucky."

The man nodded. They watched the burning wreckage. The man's voice shook when he spoke again. "What in G.o.d's name happened here? Seemed like we crashed and after that initial chaos it was all over . . . then all h.e.l.l broke loose."

Bryan nodded but said nothing. The man was saying exactly what Bryan was thinking. The moon peeked out from behind scattered clouds, and together they peered at the mora.s.s of twisted metal.

"I don't know," Bryan murmured, still staring at the broken train.

There'd undoubtedly been a secondary explosion. But what had caused it? Was it something in the baggage compartment, or had one of the vehicles on the automotive railcar simply exploded?

Remembering the destructive power of the detonation, he continued to study the twisted metal. From this distance and vantage point, it was hard to be sure of anything definitive. Even so, he had that p.r.i.c.kly feeling along the back of his neck. The train almost looked like it could have been hit with a bomb. But he wasn't close enough to confirm it.

Jesus. Nick had mentioned drones before, and it hadn't really registered. Ernesto Vega had sworn to Nick at The g.a.y.l.o.r.d that the vet clinic and Thomas Rivera's house in Mexico were both destroyed by drones. Was Bryan looking at a similar attack?

But why? Why would anyone come after Sa.s.sy or him in that way?

The sirens had grown obnoxiously loud. Bryan could see the red and blue lights flashing as a police car and ambulance both drove along a turnrow toward the group. For a town of three thousand, the emergency response would be stretched thin with this type of disaster.

He glanced down at Sa.s.sy's forehead. She was still bleeding and needed to be seen by a doctor. But he needed her out of the system and off the grid. They both needed to be anonymous.

Bryan looked out over the barren tobacco field toward the man and woman they'd pa.s.sed on their way to the group.

"Any idea who they were?" he asked the old man, pointing to the bodies a few yards away. An idea was forming that might buy them some time.

A week ago, he wouldn't have thought it possible, and in fact he would have been offended at what he was about to do, at the cruelty he would perpetrate against the families. But that couple was dead, and Bryan was all about protecting the living.

The old man shook his head. "No. I don't know them."

A heavy gust of smoke blew through their little circle and dissipated. The old man coughed as he bent down to rifle through a small bag he'd managed to get off the train. If Bryan was going to do this, it had to be now.

He dug around in his own backpack a moment, then left it with Sa.s.sy and hustled over to the bodies, bending down on the pretense of checking for the couple's identification. Both were dressed in street clothes instead of pajamas, which made what he was doing a little easier. A f.a.n.n.y pack was around the woman's waist, and the man had a long billfold in his front jacket pocket. Bryan exchanged their IDs for his and Sa.s.sy's, lifting the man's wallet and replacing it with his own, plus exchanging the woman's wallet for Sa.s.sy's new pa.s.sport.

The switch wouldn't hold up for long, but hopefully it would last long enough. The emergency vehicles were close. He pocketed the couple's identification and hurried back to the group.

"Who were they?" asked the old man.

"Guy's name was Bryan Fisher and the woman was Sa.s.sy Smith."

"Wha-" Sa.s.sy looked up in surprise, but an immediate look of understanding settled over her face when she made eye contact with him.

The police car and ambulance both pulled to a stop beside them and blessedly cut the sirens, even though the lights continued to turn and bathe everyone's faces in macabre red and blue shadows that looked like blood.

Help had arrived.

"I'm James," the older man said in the deafening silence.

"I'm Robert," said Bryan. "And this is my wife, Lisa." He nodded at Sa.s.sy. "Robert and Lisa Albertson."

Chapter Ten.

December 28 Morning Kingstree, South Carolina SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Sa.s.sy sat on a gurney in the hall just outside an ER exam room and tried to close out all the noise-the overhead paging system, loud voices, louder crying, and beeping monitors. As bad as the hallway was, the ER waiting area was worse, having deteriorated into total chaos a couple of hours ago.

She'd just been wheeled back from a CT scan. With her splitting headache and inability to think straight, she knew without being told that she had a concussion. Bryan was nowhere to be seen, but she a.s.sumed he was close by. He hadn't let her out of his sight until they'd insisted she had to go into the room with the CT imaging machine alone.

She was still reeling from everything that had happened, but most of all from hearing Bryan identify himself as Robert Albertson, and her as his wife, Lisa.