Chapter 4 - TRACK NINE
The van screeched to a halt across two pedestrian lanes outside the station entrance.
Commuters scattered, shouting curses into the cold drizzle.
Adrien shoved the van door open.
He tucked the Kimber deep into his inner coat pocket.
He pulled his collar high to hide the blood trailing down his jawline.
The grand concourse smelled of wet wool, diesel fumes, and roasted nuts.
Hundreds of people surged under the massive iron departure board.
The digital letters clattered and flipped overhead.
"TRACK NINE: PORTLAND REGIONAL — 4:30 PM — BOARDING."
Adrien pushed his way through the dense crowd.
His shoulder burned with every brush against a commuter's coat.
He scanned the sea of faces.
He looked for a small black suitcase.
He looked for the faded dark blue wool coat she had worn for two winters.
He reached the brass turnstiles of Track Nine.
Two transit officers stood near the ticket collector.
Behind them, the diesel engine rumbled, pumping white steam toward the glass skylights.
A conductor raised a brass whistle to his lips.
"All aboard! Track nine, final call!"
Adrien vaulted the metal turnstile.
"Hey! Sir, stop!" an officer yelled.
Adrien ignored him.
He hit the platform concrete at a dead sprint.
Passengers were filing into the narrow silver doors of the train cars.
Adrien scanned the windows.
Face after face flashed past.
Businessmen reading papers.
Mothers holding infants.
Students with headphones.
Nothing.
He reached the middle carriage.
The train jolted forward two inches as the air brakes hissed.
"Stand back from the train!" the conductor yelled from behind him.
Adrien grabbed the handrail of Car Four and hauled himself up the metal steps.
The heavy door slid shut behind him with a hydraulic thud.
The train began to roll.
The platform outside started sliding past, slowly gaining speed.
Adrien steadied his breathing.
He walked down the narrow aisle of Car Four.
His boots squeaked on the linoleum floor.
He checked every row.
Every seat.
Empty coats.
Sleeping passengers.
He pushed through the heavy rubber vestibule door into Car Three.
The smell of stale tobacco hit him.
Sitting in the very last row, facing the window with her forehead pressed against the glass, was Isabella.
Her small black suitcase was wedged between her ankles.
Her shoulders were trembling.
Adrien stopped three feet away.
"You took the wrong seat," he said.
His voice cut clean through the rhythmic clatter of the train tracks.
Isabella froze.
Her reflection in the rain-streaked window went entirely rigid.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Her eyes widened in horror, not relief.
She took in the dried blood on his temple, his torn coat, his bruised knuckles.
"You're alive," she whispered.
Her voice was barely audible above the engine roar.
"You sound disappointed," Adrien said.
"Get off this train," she breathed, scrambling to her feet.
She shoved him back toward the door with both hands.
Her hands shook violently against his chest.
"Adrien, get off! Now!"
It was the first time in two years she had spoken his first name.
"Who touched your wrist, Isabella?"
She didn't answer.
She grabbed his coat lapels, her knuckles whitening.
"They aren't tracking the car," she gasped, tears spilling over her lashes.
"They put the tracking chip in my suitcase."
The vestibule door behind Adrien slid open with a violent snap.
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A man in a gray trench coat stepped inside.
A black sound suppressor extended from the barrel of his automatic pistol.
