Oath of Office (37 page)

Lou’s heart sank. He had no idea how enormous Chester’s train was going to be. Even if he were able to sneak aboard, it would be nearly impossible to locate the car where Cap and George were being held. Then he remembered the number, clearly visible in the photograph.

Fifty-eight.

He checked the picture to be sure. The number was stenciled on the wall behind his two battered friends. Lou looked carefully at the cars as he drove past. Each one was numbered, although in no particular sequence that he could discern. Some of them were standard boxcars and some were grain cars. They represented several different rail lines, and were probably rentals. But a majority of them, particularly the boxcars, belonged to
CHESTER RAIL SYSTEMS
and had stenciled black numbers at the center of their side, similar to the numbers inside the car holding Cap and George.

Lou had planned simply to walk up to Chester’s storage facility, turn himself over to William, and negotiate—essentially winging it from moment one. Now, he increased his speed, searching for car number fifty-eight, and just as important, a way to get onto it. To his left, the train lurched forward again. Another load.

Lou drove a quarter mile. No fifty-eight.

Chester’s silos were approaching in the distance. The massive structure was composed of four cylinders, maybe twenty stories high, rising up like medieval turrets. Toward the base of each silo, he could now see long metal chutes—half pipes extending out for loading the corn through hatches in the roofs of the cars. At that moment, the train stopped again and in the distance he could actually see and hear the death kernels, rumbling like golden hail down a chute into an empty car.

Where was this corn headed? Lou asked himself. Who would be eating it? How many more lives would be ruined or lost because of it?

He accelerated slightly. Seven fifty. Time was running out. The towering grain silos drew closer. It was then Lou saw something ahead in the distance—the starlike headlight of an oncoming eastbound train. From what he could tell, it appeared to be moving slowly. The way to get onto Chester’s train may have just arrived.

But only if he could find car fifty-eight.

Without hesitating, he floored the accelerator, still searching to his left as the headlights of Renee’s BMW played across the sides of the corn cars. The approaching train, a totally black phantom from what Lou could tell, seemed to be crawling ahead, perhaps trying not to disrupt the loading process by sending kernels flying everywhere.

He sped past Chester’s silos without slowing. The corn train seemed unending. Still no fifty-eight. Perhaps he had missed it. No matter. If his plan worked, and if fifty-eight was part of the train, he would find it. Finally, he passed the engines—three in all. The head of the dragon. He kept on driving. The black phantom was now a slow-moving eastbound snake with a yellow CSX insignia painted on its two ebony engines.

Ahead, the horizon glowed like the remnants of a settling fire, its red orange hues being nudged into oblivion by the descending night sky.

Seven fifty-five.

Here, the road curved, bringing Lou even closer to the train tracks, now some ten feet to his left. He cut his speed, then confident he had driven far enough, braked to a stop and exited the Beemer. He took the car keys with him, hoping against hope that once Cap and George were freed, all three would be able to make their way back to this spot undetected. Lou took one other item from the car as well, a tire iron. It would probably be that against guns and killers who knew how to use them, but better a tire iron than just his wits.

The huge eastbound freight train lumbered along at about the pace of a brisk walker. Lou jogged up to it, ignoring painful messages from both his wounded thigh and stiff ankle. Down the track to his left, the lone headlight on the lead engine of Chester’s train glowed like a cyclops in the deepening night. Following alongside the CSX cars, Lou checked out the steel ladders on two of them.

From a distance, jumping hobo-style onto such a slow-moving train did not strike him as too perilous. However, from up close, and somewhat hobbled, he wasn’t so confident.

Seven fifty-eight.

He had to move. Cradling the tire iron in his hand, Lou caught his breath and jumped at a chest-high rung on the next passing ladder.

The tire iron clanged as he got a hold of the painted metal. An instant later, the hand with his weapon lost its grip on the rung. Lou swung away from the side of the car like an opening door. The tire iron fell to the gravel beside the squealing wheels. Gripping tightly with the other hand, he shifted his weight to counter the momentum, then swung back, hitting his nose hard against the ladder. Instantly, his eyes teared up and his vision blurred. With his hand now freed, he managed to regain his hold. With tears still cascading, and now nearly breathless, he climbed. At the top, he flattened out on the roof and peered across at the trio of engines on Chester’s train as the phantom rolled slowly past them.

Next came the unending line of corn cars and boxcars. One by one, he scanned the numbers painted on each. The massive CSX train groaned and shuddered as it passed no more than two feet from the other.

“One-thirty-one.

“Twenty-seven.

“Sixty.”

Lou said each number aloud. His heart was racing as the cars glided past. The car he had chosen to jump on was past the silo now. The sound of corn kernels rumbling down the loading tubes was lost in the grinding of the wheels.

“One-oh-seven.

“Sixty-two.”

It was just after eight.

Be strong, Cap.… You be strong.

“Thirty-six.

“Eighteen.”

He looked ahead at the number of the next car he would pass.

There it was! Fifty-eight, right after eighteen.

Lou shifted into a crouch and inched across toward the other train. He would go for the roof of car number eighteen, to avoid alerting any guards who might be in fifty-eight. Time had run out for Cap and George. The fear that was choking his confidence gave way as he readied himself to make the leap. Even though the black phantom was moving slowly, the ground between the two trains was a blur.

One … two … three!

With all the force he had, Lou launched himself across the gap between trains. He traveled much less distance than he had expected or intended, and landed hard on the roof of number eighteen. However, he hadn’t appreciated a slight slope to both sides from the center of the car, and without traction he immediately began to slip backwards.

Unable to arrest his slide, Lou went over the roof feetfirst. At the last possible instant, he caught hold of a rib running along the roof edge, and his arms held. Uttering a soft thanks to Cap for the upper body training, he hoisted himself back onto the car in an awkward chin-up—the second time in eight hours or so his arms had been tested like that.

Eight-oh-seven.

Please, don’t let me be too late.

With his body as flat as he could manage, Lou crawled marine-style along the length of car eighteen. Up in a crouch again, he was about to dive above the platform joining it to car fifty-eight, when the train lurched forward to receive another load of Frankencorn. Lou was thrown hard onto his back. Air burst from his lungs, and his head snapped backwards against the unyielding metal.

No time.

Dazed, he again scrambled into a crouch and leapt headfirst from eighteen to fifty-eight. His belly-flop landing was surprisingly easy and silent.

Maybe another prayer is in order,
he thought.

If he was right—and he simply had to be—Cap and George were just below him.

The train stopped moving. Glancing ahead, Lou heard the rumble and saw a rush of yellow corn seed as one of the silos emptied some of its load about four cars ahead.

At the center of the roof of car fifty-eight was a closed hatch. The door’s rusted hinges creaked slightly as Lou lifted it open, but the sound of the corn rushing down the loading chute appeared to mask it. Flattened against the metal, he peered into the gloom below. The sliding door on the left side was open, bathing the inside in a dim light from the spots on the silo. He could make out a lone guard—jacket off, gun in his shoulder holster, unaware of the changes above him.

There might be other guards down there, out of Lou’s line of sight, but no matter. The flames of his determination were fanned by what he saw just in front of the man below him. Cap and George, neither of them moving, were dangling from a ceiling support on thick chains, their feet barely touching the floor. Even in the dim light, it was easy to see that they had been viciously beaten. Their heads hung down lifelessly.

At that moment, the gunman, tall and blond, with a square-set jaw, glanced up. He moved directly beneath the opening of the hatch, blinking to clear his vision.

Lou clenched his teeth.

He said a silent prayer for God to watch over Emily.

Then he jumped.

CHAPTER 51

Falling prey to his own disbelief, the guard was late in reacting to the movement above him. Silently, arms flailing, Lou plunged fifteen feet chest first, like a sky-jumper in free fall. Below him, he could see the confusion and hesitation in the young man’s face. Just before they collided, he thought he recognized him from Chester’s cornfield.

“What the—?”

The guard’s words were cut short when Lou, head turned to one side, hit him like a cannonball. Lou’s knees slammed into his midchest. An older man might have had his sternum or collarbones snap, but the blond was solid and fit. He went crashing over backwards with Lou on top. His hefty pistol clattered away.

Lou’s breath exploded out of him, and his right elbow hit with numbing force. His body momentarily went limp from the pain, and he rolled to his side. He was relieved to see there were no other guards. From where he lay, it seemed as if his sudden appearance hadn’t registered with either Cap or George. In fact, he wasn’t even certain George was breathing.

“Cap, can you hear me?” he said in a harsh whisper. “It’s Lou.”

A moan and movement of the fighter’s head were the response.

The men were suspended from a beam by a single heavy chain, secured by a padlock.

To Lou’s right, the stunned guard was groaning and struggling to roll over. He kept pressing against his ears with his huge hands, perhaps trying to muffle the continued explosions in his head. With any luck, the man was out of commission.

Lou crawled to his friends and cringed. Cap’s eyes were nearly lost within mounds of swollen bruises. There were cuts on his cheeks and arms, and his lips were split and caked with dried blood. Chester’s thugs had accomplished what no opponent in the ring had ever been able to do.

“What took you so long?” Cap rasped, his words thick and barely discernible.

“I’m going to get you guys out of here,” Lou said. “Just hang in there.”

“Very funny,” Cap managed.

Lou was on his feet now, checking George. Gratefully, he was breathing, albeit shallowly and slowly. Lou lifted his head and checked his pupils as best he could. Wide but equal in size. Better than they might have been. George’s hands were pitifully swollen, and folded over like rags. Lou wondered if there was any function left in them.

“Lou!”

He was scanning the dark corners of the car for the guard’s gun, when Cap grunted a frantic warning and kicked his feet to get Lou’s attention.

The guard was on his knees, propping himself up with a hand on each side. He was a beast, Lou realized—huge hands, broad shoulders, and the neck of a linebacker. His platinum blond hair was smeared with blood, probably from a gash at the back of his head. Still, he looked far more lucid now.

Lou scanned the boxcar once more, searching for the gun or some other sort of weapon. The walls and grimy floor beneath him seemed bare.

Where in the hell was the gun?

The guard was quickly regaining his senses and had to be dealt with. If he woke up much more, it would be like being trapped inside a metal box with an angry tiger. Lou had never kicked anyone in the face, but this seemed like the time. He took two steps and swung his right leg up toward the man’s chin, as viciously as he could. The guard reacted much quicker than Lou had anticipated, batting Lou’s foot aside with the swipe of a meaty arm, and the kick barely connected enough to throw the man off balance.

Trouble.

Lou knew he had only seconds to act. Another kick was probably not the answer. His eyes were drawn to a large amount of excess chain, dangling from George and looped loosely on the floor.

The guard was wobbly, but readying himself to stand. Lou’s only hope was that the man’s concussion was still slowing him down.

Diving headfirst, Lou grabbed the chain about four feet from the end, and swung it with all his might at the guard’s face, connecting with much more force than he had with the kick. The blond reeled as Lou was wrapping the end of the chain around his own fist, creating in effect a set of brass knuckles. A right hook connected solidly enough to send the man spinning onto his face.

Lou leapt on his back and in an instant had the chain wrapped around his throat. Kicking frantically, the guard rolled over, forcing Lou onto his back. But Lou, now beneath him, was still able to keep maximum tension on the chain.

The man, on top, facing upward, was thrashing wildly, trying to break free of Lou’s hold. Lou responded by pulling even tighter on the chain.

“Stop fighting,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “You’re only going to make it worse.”

For emphasis, he used up what felt like his remaining strength to increase the tension.

The guard continued to thrash. Lou kept the chain taut, but the task was getting harder. His own muscles were battered and burning, and he doubted he could hold on much longer. The beast had to black out. Turning his head for better leverage, Lou held on.

At that moment, where the floor met the wall, in the darkest corner of the car, he spotted the gun. There was no way the guard could have seen it there yet.