Murder on the Disoriented Express (2 page)

The guard’s face reddens slightly.

Alan waits for the guard to guide her to one side, to execute some kind of pat-down procedure. But his eyes glide over Ciere, and Alan can almost see the thoughts running through his brain: teenage girl, blond, white, perky, with a Hello Kitty backpack.

It’s amazing
, Alan thinks,
how she never has to raise a single illusion to fool people.

“Go on through,” says the guard, and beckons to Alan.

After he’s cleared, Alan joins Ciere. She grasps the safety railing and heaves herself up the tall steps, into the train car. A woman, dressed in a garishly bright uniform takes Pruitt’s ticket and says, “Welcome aboard.” She beams at them, probably thinking Pruitt is the single dad of two teenagers. “Do you have any items you need secured?” She gestures behind her, at a wall of cubbies. “These are free of charge with your ticket and we guarantee the safety of any valuables you might bring on board.”

Pruitt murmurs a refusal.

“What room are we in?” asks Ciere, glancing at Alan.

“Thirty-two,” he replies automatically. He may not be a professional criminal, but he has his own strengths to offer this mission: specifically, his eidetic memory. Along with their room number, he took the time to look over the train’s blueprints. Just in case. Because if there’s anything he’s learned while working for the Syndicate, it’s that nothing ever goes quite according to plan.

Their room looks exactly like Alan expects. All the plastic is designed to look like metal and wood, and the seats are a velvety crimson. Even the curtains look like something out of an old film. But even so, the room is tiny. There are two chairs and Alan sees how they’ll come together, fold into a bed. There is another bed tucked over the window, folded tightly against the train’s ceiling.

Alan goes to the left side of the room and leans his hip against the back of the chair. He glances at Ciere and gestures to it. She gives him a look; she’s teased him about playing the role of her bodyguard. He smiles down at the chair and she silently acquiesces, sitting down.

Pruitt watches the silent exchange before taking the other chair. “We should get started,” he says, and pulls an envelope out of his pocket. He rips it open at the seam, letting the contents fall onto the small table: two pieces of paper, filled with Guntram’s steady handwriting, along with a couple of photos. Ciere picks up the first paper, angling it so that Alan can see. Pruitt takes the second.

Clipped to the paper’s edge is a woman’s mug shot. She’s fair-haired, with a long, narrow face.

Alberani agent
, reads Guntram’s handwriting.
You don’t need to know her name. She’ll have changed it. Just call her whatever you like. She’s the one bringing the money for the exchange. Avoid her at all costs; I’d rather not have to pick up your bodies from the train tracks.

“Rover,” says Ciere.

Pruitt doesn’t look up from his own paper. “What?”

“I think she looks like a Rover,” says Ciere.

Pruitt’s eyes drag upward and he gives Ciere a flat stare.
“What?”

Ciere shrugs one shoulder. Her voice is deliberately light. “Hey, Guntram says we get to name the Alberani agent. I say we run with that.”

Alan fights back a smile. “So you pick a dog name?”

“She’s fetching guns.” Ciere taps a finger against the mug shot. “And she looks kind of like those thin racing dogs.”

“Greyhounds,” Alan supplies.

“Call her whatever you like,” says Pruitt, with all the resignation of a babysitter allowing his charges extra helpings of dessert. He holds out the second sheet of paper, exchanging it for Ciere’s.

On the second sheet is a man’s photograph, the kind professionals take for their ID photos. The man is average looking in a gray uniform with neatly clipped reddish brown hair. He has a hooked nose and sharp, bright eyes. Probably in his thirties, Alan guesses.

One of the train conductors
, notes Guntram’s handwriting.
Nathan Shaw. He once worked as Hubbard’s PA, making him one of Hubbard’s most trusted employees. That’s why he’s handling the exchange. No criminal record. He has a conceal carry license, but there’s no evidence that he’s experienced in combat.

Pruitt waits until Ciere puts the paper down before saying, “Now, I know Guntram told you the plan, but I’d like to make sure you understand it. Repeat it back to me.”

Alan doesn’t have to see Ciere’s face; her shoulders draw tight. She hates being condescended to, even by her allies. Especially by her allies.

“We know the plan,” she says stiffly.

Pruitt doesn’t reply. He waits.

Ciere huffs out a breath. “Fine. The Alberanis are here to pick up a shipment of guns. The guns are hidden in one of those storage lockers, so there’s no chance of the Alberanis double-crossing this Nathan Shaw. We wait for the Alberani agent, Rover, to pass off a large sum of money to Shaw in exchange for a key to one of the security lockers. She’ll do it in a public place because that’s how these things work. There are three cars with public areas, so we split up and watch. Once we see the money and key have exchanged hands, I follow Shaw back to his room and steal the money. Then you plant it in Rover’s quarters and find a way to tip off the security. So they find the guns and the money in one locale. Boom—no more nice trains for the Alberanis to run their guns on.” She lets an edge slip into her voice. “And that’s the plan.”

Pruitt’s frown remains firmly in place. “There’s one thing you should know.”

“And what’s that?” drawls Ciere, making no attempt to hide her annoyance.

“Not all of the money will be brought into custody,” says Pruitt. “Guntram wants us to take some. Not all, but enough.”

“And this Shaw won’t notice?” says Alan. He prefers to stay silent during these conversations, letting Ciere draw the mobster’s attention. But this question needs answering.

“It won’t matter,” says Pruitt, shrugging. “In the chaos, it’ll be assumed that Rover stashed some of it in a new location. We’ll destroy the working relationship and walk away with a few thousand to give to Guntram.”

“So this is a heist,” says Ciere. “In addition to the sabotage.”

Pruitt’s gaze flicks to her and his eyes narrow slightly. “You say this like you’ve done it before.”

“We’re not amateurs, you know,” she replies. “I’ve been doing this since I was eleven.”

This time there is a flash of emotion, somewhere deep in Pruitt’s eyes. It’s gone before Alan can identify it. “Yes,” says Pruitt quietly. “Yes, you have.”

Ciere opens her mouth but the train lurches forward. Alan grabs the back of her seat to steady himself. There’s a groan of metal on metal and a loud whistle. Through their room’s small window, Alan sees the station drift by. They’re moving, on their way out of the city.

Their window suddenly goes dark, and the carefully constructed antique look falls away. The window is made of high-definition enamel, capable of shifting from window to screen in a moment.

A woman wearing that same bright uniform appears, holding a safety brochure. “Welcome to Hubbard Rails,” she says, her smile a little too wide on the screen. “Where we believe the journey is all that matters...”

Alan lets the woman’s voice fade away; he still hears it, can bring it to mind later, but for now his gaze settles on Ciere. Her fists are still tight in her lap, her face set in rigid lines. He knows her well enough by now to guess what has her on edge. Ciere may be a criminal, but she takes pride in her work. To have her hard-earned skills questioned is the surest way to earn a glare and resentful silences.

“Remember,” the woman is saying, “should you see anyone suspicious, there are ways to summon security.” On the window, the HDE screen goes dark, then illuminates with what looks like a blueprint of a train car. The angle zooms in, on a red button near a window. “There is a panic button in every car,” the woman says, once the camera has settled back on her. “For your safety. Should one be pressed, the car itself will be locked down and security summoned.”

“And that’s how you deter pickpockets,” says Ciere. “Cut off the exits, make security available, and remind everyone to be on their guard.” She reaches out and twitches the curtains shut. The woman’s face vanishes behind them. “Oh, well. At least this job might be interesting.”

It is interesting. At least for Alan. It’s probably not the same for him as it is for Ciere or Pruitt. This train ride is just another routine job for them.

For Alan, it’s all new.

The spaces, small as they are, feel just a little too wide. There are so many people, all milling about through the cars. He can smell carpet cleaner, the scents some of the passengers wear, the cooking food emerging from the kitchen into the dining car where he sits.

He tries to take it all in, but it’s almost dizzying—sensory overload. He’s getting better at it, but being here in the real world is still a shock. He’s used to skulking on the fringes of society, squatting in abandoned houses, and avoiding crowds at all costs. When Alan’s aunt was alive, she would never have allowed him aboard such a train. Too many people, too many eyes, too much everything.

He finds he likes the chaos, even if it does make him feel horribly out of place. This dining car is almost painfully posh, with its oak tables lining the walls, the chairs with the velvet seats, and the waiters with pristine napkins draped over one arm.

And Alan sits amidst all this finery in his worn hoodie. He feels as conspicuous as if he were wearing a sign that reads,
CRIMINAL
.

If his aunt could see him now, Alan is pretty sure she would have been glaring at him. And that thought sends a pang of loneliness through him. He forces himself to turn away from that line of thought; going down that path will only take him places he’d rather not visit. Instead, he thinks about the heist ahead of them.

The main problem with their plan is that they don’t know when Rover is supposed to meet with Shaw. It could be now, it could be hours from now. To keep up appearances, Ciere and Alan will trade places in two hours.

As for Pruitt…well, he’s stuck in the bar.

Such a hardship.

The waiter passes by, giving Alan a courteous nod. Alan lets himself pick up the menu and order another appetizer. At least there is one perk to this job. He’s never had such food in his life—his aunt never cooked and it wasn’t as if they could afford more than takeout or the occasional drive-thru. A salad, with real goat cheese and walnuts, is something he’s never indulged in before. It’s an experience, to be able to sit in one location and order food he’s never tasted.

Turns out he’s not exactly a fan of walnuts. But it’s still an experience.

Alan’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he retrieves it, grateful to have a new prop to fidget with.

Bored
, reads Ciere’s text.

He smiles to himself; he can just imagine the way she’d say it, drawing out the word.

At least you don’t have waiters glaring at you because you’re underdressed
, he writes back.

Waiters I can deal with. I just watched a toddler try to eat board game money.

You could always steal the money from the toddler,
Alan types back.

Because this is what I’ve been reduced to. Stealing fake money from babies to entertain myself.

Alan laughs quietly and his fingers dart over the phone, ready to reply, when the Alberani agent walks into the car. Alan’s fingers go still and he forces himself not to react, to do as his aunt always told him. Keep his head down, eyes averted.

He sees Rover in his peripheral vision. She looks just like her picture—a narrow face, hard expression, dressed well enough to not draw attention. But the clothes don’t quite fit her and she shifts uncomfortably, as if her high heels are new. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed, but Alan has spent too long hiding in the company of others. He recognizes a disguise when he sees one.

Rover slides into a chair and tucks her briefcase beneath the table and out of sight.

It might not be the drop. Rover—Alan is
never
going to get that name out of his head—could just be hungry. Mobsters got hungry. Alan could wait. Would wait. It was what he was best at.

Only five minutes after Rover orders a steak, Shaw comes through the car doors. His picture didn’t quite do him justice. He’s taller in person and carries himself with a subtle sort of confidence. He talks to a waiter for a moment, smiling slightly as if he knows the man. He gestures at something behind him, face apologetic. The waiter chuckles and hands him a napkin. Alan just manages to hear the words. “So long as I don’t have to clean it up,” the waiter says. “Have fun.”

Shaw smiles wider and turns back to the car doors. Perhaps this isn’t the drop after all, Alan thinks. Perhaps—

But as Shaw passes by Rover’s table, the napkin slips from his fingers. He squats to pick it back up, his hand going to Rover’s table. As if to steady himself.

But when his hand moves away, a small silver key rests upon the tabletop.

Rover’s leg moves and she slides the briefcase to him. As Shaw stands, he moves so smoothly that it looks as if the case has been in his hand the whole time.

Not a bad little exchange, but then again, Alan isn’t an expert. Ciere probably would’ve pointed out ten easier ways to do it, while making a witty quip and taking the wallet out of another patron’s pocket.

Alan waits until Shaw has left the car to text Ciere and Pruitt.

Game on.

“Get the money and get out,” Pruitt says, for what has to be the fourth time. “Don’t stick around. Get the money and—”

“Blow it all at the next casino,” replies Ciere, utterly deadpan. “Yes, yes, I know the plan.” She clears her throat, because the hallway outside of their room is hardly a private place.

Pruitt does not look reassured, but he heaves a sigh and strides into the next car. As the doors glide shut behind him, Ciere says, “I really don’t like him.”

“I think the feeling’s mutual.” Alan scratches at the back of his head. “Come on. Might as well not give him another reason to complain to Guntram about having to work with two kids.”