The next car smells like coffee—rich, dark, comforting. My stomach twists. I could kill for caffeine. Maybe a breakfast sandwich. Normally I’d have something in my bag—a protein bar, fruit jerky, something quick.
But I wasn’t supposed to be running for my life today.
I was going to all-inclusive resorts. Beach lounges. Umbrella drinks.
My backpack is barebones and it’s my own fault.
I pass through two cars without issue.
Halfway down the third, adrenaline spikes—sharp, electric—half a second before a hand whips out toward me.
I drop my weight and he misses, fingers slicing through empty air.
My knife is already in my hand, the pointed blade flicking open with a quiet snap. I thrust directly toward his face?—
He twists, fast, and I drive the blade into the seat just behind him instead. Foam hisses. Fabric tears.
He uses the opening to grab my wrist, wrenching me sideways. My body whips across, slamming into the seat beside him. I hit the cushion hard, shoulder jarring.
I throw an elbow—sharp, tight—but he blocks easily, angling me back. I twist under his arm, slide across the space, and hook myself onto the seat opposite him. Both my hands grip the armrests as I lift my body fully off the ground and kick.
Both boots slam into his chest—hard.
His breath leaves him in an undignified “oof.”
His pistol clatters to the floor.
I don’t think—I draw my gun on instinct, bringing it up?—
But he’s already reaching down. He grabs the fallen gun, and I stomp my heel onto his hand, pinning both his wrist and the weapon to the floor.
He snarls and reaches up with his free hand, grabbing my wrist to shove my aim off-line beforeI can fire.
And in a second we’re locked in a perfect stalemate.
Alejandro’s dark brown eyes burn into mine.
Exactly as intense as he’s always been.
The entire fight was silent. Violent, yes. But contained. Focused. Not a single passenger at the far end of the car turns our way.
We breathe hard in sync, sweat pearling at our hairlines.
“I’m not here to kill you, Saint.” He whispers. His voice is deeper than I remember. Richer. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. The close quarters. Or maybe it was always like this, and two years was enough to dull my memory.
His Spanish accent slides through me like it always did, tracing down my spine, but I keep my face blank.
“Excuse me if I don’t believe you,” I mutter back, tone sharp enough to cut.
“What other choice do you have?” he asks quietly.
“I could kill you at least a dozen ways without leaving my seat.”
The soft thrum of noise comes from the next doorway behind him.
A train attendant greeting passengers in Japanese, stepping car to car, checking tickets, taking coffee orders.
Alejandro and I stay frozen.
