The wave of heat from an incinerated train car behind us swept through ours, sending everyone scrambling for cover. Each of the three families had taken responsibility for arming sections of the train and I knew the dining car had half a dozen wall panels stuffed with Turgenev weaponry. I slid open one of the doors hidden in the wood wainscoting and shouldered one of the AR-15’s.
Soldiers from our three families poured into the car with extra guns and ammunition and I handed my mother a Glock, checking to make sure it was loaded first. Mariya didn’t wait, pulling a sniper rifle out of one of the stashes and hauling up one of the windows to shoot through the gap.
“There’s a tank blocking the tracks in front of us,” my father shouted, listening to someone yelling information in his headset, “and a helicopter just landed behind us. Kon, with me.”
He carried an FIM-92 Stinger missile launch tube under his arm the way other men would carry their briefcases. Scooping up the BCU gear that holds the launch tube for firing, I raced after him.
“We must be at least three train cars away from the dining car or the blowback could set it on fire,” he said. The door ahead of us burst open and he had his gun out and shot the first man through the door before I could even raise my rifle.
At least I shot the next bastard in the head, exploding it into red vapor and throwing his body back against the other two men behind them. Unfortunately, one of them had submachine gun, sticking the muzzle through the opening and spraying the seats with bullets as we ducked behind them.
“Cover your ears,” my father shouted, ducking, and I just barely got my hands up as he hurled a flashbang grenade at the invaders, then rising to casually shoot one, then the other. I winced, even with my hands slapped over my ears the percussive force of the grenade made my eardrums bulge ominously. My father pointed up, and I could feel the vibration of boots thudding on top of the train. We both aimed and shot upward as the footsteps got closer and smiled as the bodies thudded heavily against the roof and rolled off onto the tracks.
“Two more cars!”
The scramble through the last train car was mainly in a crouch, kicking through broken glass, my ears still ringing from the flashbang. My father put his hand to his earpiece, trying to hear the information being shared in his headset.
“Our bird’s in the air and they’re about to drop the tank-killer charge,” he said, “hang on. Three, two-” The train car rocked violently and there was screaming above us as the last of their soldiers on the roof of the train were blown to pieces from the destruction of the tank.
There’s always the moment in a gun battle when everything turns into a blur of light and sound, the heat of explosives searing skin, and hearing mutes from the gunfire. Everything narrows down to the sight of who was shooting at me.
We were almost to the caboose; I could see the helicopter behind the train and a clot of the enemy’s men blocking our route to fire at it.
“This is close enough,” my father said, “get the gear set.” He put down some cover fire as I set up the missile and braced the blast-proof shield in front of us. He had timed me over and over before on weapons assembly and I’m fast with the shoulder-mount Stinger. Once my hand was on the grip stock, he slapped me on the back and nodded toward the door. “Straight through.”
We watched the streak of fire tear through the caboose, the men and continue its inexorable path straight into the helicopter, already hovering off the rails like they realized the fight was lost. It exploded in a blue-white flare of light and heat, sending flaming chunks of metal in all directions.
“Good work. Let’s get back,” he said, “your mother probably has bodies piling up as we speak.”
Shit,I thought,knowing Mariya, she does too.
Chapter Two
In which we hear Mariya’s version of That Night.
Fireball - Pitbull
Mariya…
Current day…
“He didwhat?”Tatiana screeched.
We’re eating dinner in front of the fireplace in our suite at the Academy, too tired to head out to the dining hall. To her credit, my best friend at least let me finish the main course before dragging the whole, sordid story out of me.
“He said it was a mistake,” I confirm, my grip tightening on my fork. “He handed me a Plan B box and told me it wouldn’t be happening again.”
“That asshole!” She nearly vibrates with rage, which is rather comforting. “Let’s burn his clothes and throw his cell phone on top of it all. Or cut out the middleman and sethimon fire. Seriously, what a selfish prick!”
“Is it wrong that your homicidal rage is cheering me up?” I ask. She pulls me away from the table and we sit on our wonderfully squishy couch. We piled it high with colorful pillows and it’s the most comfortable spot in the entire suite.
She breaks into a reluctant laugh. “I’m glad I’m entertaining you. What happened, exactly? Start from the beginning. Before the battle.”
“We were eating dinner just before it happened,” I said. “This train… I know I’ve told you how over-the-top luxurious it was, the dining car, however, was over the top even by exalted Morozov standards. The table was this hand-carved masterpiece of black walnut that ran fifteen feet down the middle of the car, with snowy-white linens and elaborate settings of delicate, thin china, crystal goblets, and antique silverware. Maksim even ‘borrowed’ a Michelin-starred chef - Jean-Georges - from theArtestrestaurant in Moscow to feed us during the trip.”
“Okay, I’ve got the visual,” Tatiana says, “what happened then?”
On the train…
