We maneuver Skippy into the common car, slotting him into a seat by the window. Alejandro angles his head just right so he looks like a guy who had one too many glasses of merlot and passed out before the train even left the station.
People barely glance at him.
Just another tired traveler.
Alejandro sits beside him. I take the seat across just as the train rumbles beneath us, engines humming to life.
For the first time in hours, we’re not being shot at, chased, or launched off rooftops.
It doesn’t feel like relief.
It feels like the deep breath before the next explosion.
The dining car smells like overcooked meat and stale coffee, which—unfortunately—only makes my stomach growl louder. Alejandro hears it, smirks, and pushes outof his seat.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, already weaving toward the food counter.
Great.
Now it’s just me and Dead Skippy.
His lips have gone an impressive shade of dead-man blue, and his skin has that waxy sheen that says we’re officially entering the “clock is ticking” portion of corpse transportation.
Across the aisle, a kid keeps making faces at him—crossing his eyes, sticking out his tongue, trying to get a reaction. The dad is oblivious, glued to his phone. The mom, baby strapped to her chest, shushes the kid half-heartedly.
I shake my head.
You couldn’t pay me enough for that job.
I try focusing on Grim’s intel—Owen’s swelling arm, the implant we can’t risk slicing open, the dark web chatter—but Alejandro returns before I can get far, balancing a plate piled with hot dogs like he’s catering a children’s birthday party. He drops two bottles of water and some random snacks onto the table.
I stare at the hot dogs, scandalized.
“That’s disgusting.”
He grins, taking off his rifle case and propping it between him and Skippy.
Fuck. Owen.
“You and your aversion to eating land meat is a crime against good Spanish cuisine.”
“Hot dogs are hardly good cuisine or Spanish.” I can’t help the sour expression on my face. “They barely count as food as is. You have no idea what is in those things.”
He smirks. “Please, you eat like a woodland creature with trust issues. Let the adults enjoy their food.”
“And you look like a man who eats hot dogs for the shape, not the taste.” I snip back.
He pauses, considers the hot dog in his hand, shrugs, and takes a massive bite. I grimace as he chews with commitment.
I push the hot dog trauma aside. “Let’s talk about the accountant.”
Alejandro gives an exaggerated chew like he’s savoring my suffering. “Okay, what have you got?”
“You think that hit makes sense? Skippy was sniffing around for Fantasma?” I ask. “That he was actually looking to hand off intel?”
“Wouldn’t be the first idiot with a death wish.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “But yeah. He if was asking the wrong questions on the wrong boards. Someone was going to notice.”
There’s something he’s not saying though.
