Crush - Alan Jacobson [144]
She angled closer to the train—and for the first time realized how massive it was. Traveling in a car, at a distance, as she had been with Dixon when she had first seen it, the restored railcars didn’t look so imposing.
But running alongside it, feeling the shudder of its tonnage as it passed over the iron tracks, was intimidating. In some ways more so than staring down a serial killer in lockup. Because there the offender was in shackles. But here, with the unbridled power of the locomotive bearing down on her, knowing she was going to have to jump onto this moving monster, she started to have doubts she would be able to carry through on her plans. And that didn’t happen often to Karen Vail.
The train rumbled by her, first the locomotive and then the dining cars. She fought the urge to shut her eyes, to tell her there wasn’t a train barreling down the track to her left. Step the wrong way and she’d be crushed. Or worse.
And up ahead, just as she had suspected, John Mayfield moving closer to the train. The bastard wasn’t going to make this easy. As she started to feel the burn of the cold night air in her lungs, Vail realized she had no choice. It was either that or shoot him. And while that was an option, it was not a good one. She had a chance to catch him—ethically. When she reached the point that plan was no longer viable, she would raise her Glock and fire. But not yet.
As she mused on that thought, John Mayfield reached out and grabbed the iron railing on the third car, jumped, and pulled himself aboard.
FIFTY-FIVE
There were some things about being a profiler Karen Vail did not enjoy. She had made a list once, then folded it and shredded it. She didn’t need to be reminded she was dealing with the extremes of human depravity.
But one thing that was not on the list was jumping onto a moving train.
The wine train did not travel at the same speeds as a traditional train—because, after all, its purpose was to leisurely troll the five cities it passed through en route to its turnaround point, to allow its passengers ample time to enjoy the lush countryside, mountains, and vineyards, while savoring a wine-paired, freshly prepared meal at the hands of a renowned, onboard chef.
That’s what she kept telling herself as she pumped her arms harder, catching up a bit to the last car, reaching up for the railing—lifting herself up—and getting thrown back against the train’s siding. She held on, whipped around and stretched her right arm onto the opposing handle while feeling for the wide metal steps she knew lay somewhere near her feet.
She lunged forward—and slammed her shin into the hard edge of the step above. But at least she was aboard. She had a feeling that would not be the hardest part of catching John Mayfield.
A sudden, spasmodic coughing fit wracked her body. She bent forward while straining to hold on, hacking away until her throat felt raw. A moment later, she was able to stand erect, the spasm passing. She risked taking a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Inward and onward. Mayfield’s inside.
Vail pushed through the door, then reached for her handgun—but it wasn’t there. Neither was her backup weapon, which had been burned in the fire. Her Glock was locked in Dixon’s vehicle, where she had left it when they went to work out. There were no fixed Bureau rules on where to leave your sidearm when you were not able to carry it with you—so long as it was secure. Leaving it in a gym locker did not qualify as “secure”—so she’d left it in the car.
Fuck. Given Mayfield’s size—and what he does to his victims—she would have to be extremely careful, unarmed and in the close quarters of a train. Not much room to maneuver, to duck and roll—or run. Not that she shied from a conflict—this was Karen Vail—but cooler heads had to prevail, and if the circumstances were not to your advantage, you changed those circumstances so they would help you achieve