Protecting Ava

by Jillian Anselmi

  Ava

  Seeing Brian laying lifeless on the floor…I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.

  Sad. Angry. Emotionally wrecked.

  We were together for three years.

  Three years of my life wasted.

  How could I have been so blind?

  I pry my eyes from Brian’s cold, dead body and glance at Cody. He’s watching me the way someone would watch an injured animal. With pity.

  “Dalton, I found it,” Faulkner calls out from somewhere on the train. “But we have bigger problems.” The metal door next to Brian slides open, and Faulkner enters. “Oh, shit,” he mutters as he almost trips over Brian.

  “What’s the problem. Did you disarm it?”

  “No, not yet,” he says as he looks over at me. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I mutter. My head is throbbing from where I was hit, but I’m not telling Cody that. He needs to focus on us not getting killed today.

  “There’s more bad news,” Faulkner informs us. “There’s no conductor driving this train.”

  “What do you mean?” I gasp. “How are we still moving?”

  “The door is locked, and the throttle’s been snapped off. There’s no way to stop the train even if we disarm the bomb.” Cody looks at Faulkner, whose mouth is set in a hard line.

  “Dude, let’s get that bomb turned off, then we’ll worry about the train,” he says, calm and collected.

  “Right,” he agrees. Faulkner dashes down the center corridor to the car just before the café. Sitting on top of the last seat is what looks to be a bomb. “It was underneath the seat,” he says, pointing to the base of the chair.

  “Looks like a typical IED,” Cody mutters as he leans in to get a better look.

  “Yeah, but there’s no timing device. It must work off a switch—although there could be a back-up trigger.”

  I stand back and watch them work. My being in the way isn’t going to help them. “Was that the thing Brian was holding?” I ask them from a safe distance.

  Faulkner looks at Cody, his eyebrows furrowed. “You didn’t see it, but he had a hand-held trigger. I shot him before he could do any real damage,” I answer his unspoken question. He nods, then continues to look at the explosive.

  “It’s possible that was the only one, but I’m not taking any chances,” Faulkner says, squatting next to the seat. “Okay, so the power source supplies electricity to the trigger and the detonator. The trigger activates the detonator and initiates the explosion sequence. The trigger may sense the target, be activated by the target, be a timed trigger, or be operated remotely. I’m thinking this was a remote trigger—I don’t see any sensor or timer. The detonator explodes, providing energy for the main explosive. Then, the main charge explodes, producing a high-pressure shock wave or blast wave. I don’t see any shrapnel,” he mutters almost to himself as he inspects the device.

  “Tick-tock, buddy,” Cody reminds him.

  “We’re lucky—this is a simply made bomb,” he reveals. “I need to remove the power source to the detonator from the bomb. Then it won’t explode.” Faulkner pulls a pocket knife out of his back pocket, then carefully places his thumb and middle finger on the intertwined wires. With the tip of the blade, he separates the red and yellow wires. Taking a deep breath, he cuts the red wire, and the lights that were blinking just a seconds ago go dark.

  “Good job,” Cody says to Faulkner as he gives him a pat on the shoulder.

  “One problem down,” he sighs. “Now what?”

  “These trains are equipped with emergency brakes, right?” Cody moves toward the center of the car. Along the window is a red emergency handle, and he grasps the ring, throwing out, “Hold on,” as our only warning. Faulkner and I both find a spot to sit, and he pulls the brake.

  Nothing.

  “That should have worked,” Cody mutters, shaking his head.

  “Maybe the terrorists cut the brake lines,” Faulkner utters as he stands.

  “Are we going to crash?” I squeak.

  “Not today,” Cody says, then sprints toward the front of the car. Faulkner’s able to keep up, but it’s hard to run in a skirt.

  We reach the engine car and it’s locked—just as Faulkner said it was. Cody peers through the small window, then runs his fingers through his hair. He retreats to the first passenger car.

  “Look,” Faulkner blurts, pointing out the window. We all turn and see a helicopter flying alongside the train.

  “That’s not good,” Cody mutters. He reaches into his coat pocket and curses. “Shit, I need a phone,” he blurts. “I must have dropped mine somewhere.”

  “Who are you calling?” I ask as I wonder who can help us at this point.

  “That’s a Boeing AH-64 Apache attack helicopter. If we get too close to the city, it’ll blow us off the tracks. I need to contact someone in charge,” he answers as he searches the overhead bins for a phone.

  “They’ll never allow us to get close to the tunnel,” Faulkner adds, helping the search. I check the floor, looking for pocketbooks or backpacks.

  “Got one!” I announce. I try to turn it on, but it has a passcode. “Shit,” I mutter.

  “Keep looking,” Cody coaxes.

  “Here,” Faulkner says, handing Cody an opened phone.

  “Thanks,” he mutters. “I just hope there’s someone out there to listen.”

  God, me too.

  1:40 pm

  10 minutes to impact

  Dalton

  Dialing nine-one-one, I pray the operator will believe me and put me through to whoever’s in charge. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the voice sings over the speaker.

  “My name is Cody Dalton, and I’m on Amtrak Acela number six-three-two heading toward Penn Station. Terrorists had taken over the train, but the threat has been neutralized. There was a bomb, but it’s been disarmed. I need to speak to the person in charge of the Apache flying outside my window.”

  Silence stretches across the line, no doubt trying to figure out whether this is a prank or not. “Listen, I don’t have time for this. We have less than ten minutes before the train comes barreling through Penn Station and the controls that drive this train have been compromised.”

  More silence.

  “For fuck’s sake, put someone on the goddamn line!”

  “One minute, sir,” a voice squeaks.

  “I don’t have a minute!” I roar.

  “This is the deputy director of the FBI. Who am I speaking with?” a gruff voice asks.

  “This is Master Chief Special Warfare Officer Cody Dalton of SEAL team Alpha, and I’m running out of time.” I briefly explain our situation to the commander, filling him in on our potential problem.

  “Have you tried the emergency brake?” he asks.

  “It didn’t work—they must have cut the brake lines,” I answer.

  “Give me a second to confer,” he commands. The sounds over the line become muffled, like he’s holding his hand over the phone.

  “Who’d they put you on with?” Dude asks.

  “Some suit from the bureau,” I answer, rolling my eyes.

  “Could be worse,” he insists. “Could’ve given you some stick up his ass sergeant from one of the local precincts.” He’s right. At least this guy will be semi-professional.

  “All right, this is what you need to do. On the opposite end of the train is another engine. You need to pull the emergency brake. There’s two: one for the engine, which won’t help, and one that effects the entire train. That is the one you want to pull. It should be enough to slow down, if not stop the train.”

  The other engine.

  Why the hell hadn’t I thought of that?

  “We’ll walk you through it,” he divulges.

  “Back of the train!” I shout as I haul ass toward the other engine.

  I run as fast as my legs can carry me.

  Past the frightened passengers in the café car.

  Past Brian’s dead body in the middle of
the floor.

  Arriving at the engine, I open the heavy door and look for the brake. “I’m here.” I inform the director, standing at the center of the engine.

  “There are two brake levers. One is black, and one is red. You want the red one.”

  I look at the dashboard. The number of buttons and levers would make most people’s heads explode. I’m trained to be calm, so I scan the dash from left to right. My eyes stop on a red lever next to a black one. Placing my hand on the grip, I mutter, “Here goes nothing.” Tensing my arm, I pull the lever back. The screeching of metal on metal fills the engine room, almost to a deafening level. Ava throws her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut.

  The noise continues as the train begins to slow. Finding the speedometer, I watch the speed begin to drop.

  Ninety.

  Eighty.

  Seventy.

  Sixty.

  It continues until it hits forty miles an hour, then stays there.

  “We’ve slowed down, but the train isn’t stopping,” I tell the director.

  “That’s a problem,” he answers. “If you can’t find a way to stop that train, we’ll need to derail you,” he insists. “You can’t come through Penn Station at that speed.”

  Closing my eyes, I mentally survey the situation. What did I miss? I can’t allow the train to be derailed—there are too many innocent people aboard. We tried the brakes. We can’t get into the other engine room…

  The Apache.

  “The only other option is to get into the locked engine from the outside,” I mutter. “Have the pilot of the Apache get closer to the first car and drop a line. I have an idea.”

  “Dalton, what the hell are you doing?” Dude asks me.

  “Just like we hid when the terrorists were searching the train,” I remind him, “except I’ll float in instead of jump out.” It should work.

  No.

  It needs to work.

  The terrorists were smart to have locked the engine room from the inside, but they never would have thought someone would be stupid enough to try to gain entry from the outside. There’s no way those doors are locked.

  “You have three minutes. After that, we flip the switch on the tracks, and at that speed, the train will derail.”

  “Understood,” I answer, setting a timer on my watch as I jog to the exit door.

  Peering out the small window, I watch a black line drop from the sky. That’s my cue. I hand the phone to Dude. “Have all the passengers go to the very last car. This way if I don’t make it, there should be less of an impact back there.”

  He nods, then I pry open the door. A light hand touches my shoulder. I turn my head, catching her out the corner of my eye. “Be careful,” Ava begs, tears in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” I say with a wink.

  1:47pm

  Three minutes until impact

  Dalton

  Gripping the bar on the side of the door, I lean out to catch the rope. Once I have a firm hold with one hand, I give the pilot a thumbs up with the other.

  He repeats the signal, and I clamp down on the rope as hard as I can. My feet lift off of the metal platform and the Apache swings me toward the engine room door.

  I look at my watch.

  Two minutes thirty seconds.

  As soon as he gets me close enough to reach the handle, a gust of wind pushes me away. The pilot makes a slight adjustment, and a few seconds later, I’m able to reach the metal bar on the side of the door. While gripping the rope with my right hand, I use my left to hang onto the train. I haul myself in, resting my feet on the same platform I was standing on not a few hours earlier.

  One minute thirty-five seconds.

  Curling my fingers around the door latch, I pull it open and thrust myself inside. I move toward the control center. I look around for something I can push the broken throttle back with and come up empty. Since I can’t slow the train down that way, I find the engine emergency brake. Squeezing with both hands, I pull the lever toward me. Sparks fly from the wheels as the train begins to brake—but it’s a fight. The engine wants to keep moving, but the brakes won’t let it. The tension between the two causes the lever to shake. I hold tight, knowing if I don’t…

  The speedometer starts to move backwards, and the train begins to decelerate. A loud bang emanates from the front of the car, the strain too much for the engine to take, and we come to a sudden, screeching stop.

  With forty seconds to spare.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I take a deep breath.

  Crisis averted.

  Ava

  Faulkner and I rush to the café car where the passengers are huddled together. We enter the car to a gun pointed at us. Once the passenger realizes it’s only us, he lowers his weapon. “We need to get to the back of the car. Now,” Faulkner orders. “And prepare for the train possibly being derailed.” Collective gasps and screams fill the room.

  Bending down, I reach for the mother and little boy and help them stand. “I’ll stay back and make sure they’ve all made it,” I tell Faulkner. He nods.

  “We need to hurry,” he urges. “We don’t have much time.” Passengers begin to scramble up and run. “To the last car,” he shouts as he sprints to the back. Once I’m sure everyone has followed him, I go.

  I reach the last car and Faulkner is instructing the passengers to sit with their heads between their knees. Some are on the floor, some are in seats. Parents holding tight to their small children—husbands and wives in each other’s arms.

  Before I have a chance to sit at an empty seat, the train comes to a screeching halt—except I’m not a physical part of the train. According to Sir Isaac Newton, an object in motion will stay in motion, and that’s exactly what my body did. My body lurches forward, and I crash onto the hard metal floor.

  Faulkner rushes to my side, bending over my horizontal form. “Are you all right?”

  I start to giggle, which turns into laughter.

  Uncontrollable, howling laughter.

  He furrows his brows. “Ava?”

  “We’re all all right,” I answer in between fits. “The train stopped!”

  The corners of his mouth curve up as my words sink in. “We’ve stopped,” he repeats. “That crazy son of a bitch really did it!”

  1:50 pm

  Somewhere in Weehawken, NJ

  Dalton

  I unlock the door and exit the engine room. Sirens roar in the distance and as they draw closer, become deafening. I glance out the window and watch the Apache land. Agents exit the helo before it touches down.

  So much for a weekend with the boys.

  I proceed toward the center of the train, hopeful Dude and Ava were able to get the passengers to the back. As I enter the café car, I see her.

  Her long legs are scratched up and bloody, and her skirt is ripped to shreds. As she limps toward me, her face lights up, giving me a smile that shines like the stars in the sky with no bright city lights to dim them.

  A smile like a ray of sunshine.

  Despite everything she’s gone through, she’s smiling.

  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Unable to control myself, I rush toward her. Cupping her face in my hands, I look her over, checking every inch. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” Her gaze is pinned to mine, and I can’t look away. The fire in her eyes is set to simmer, and I won’t be the one to let that flame go out. I lean in close, my lips hovering over hers.

  For that single moment, time stops. I don’t care about the people around us. In fact, I don’t even notice them. It’s just me and her.

  The moment our lips touch, the world vanishes in a fog.

  It was slow and soft, comforting in ways words could never be. My hand rests below her ear, my thumb caressing her cheek as our breaths mingle. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on her silky skin against mine. Warmth radiates from the spot where our lips meet, slowly spreading through the re
st of me like a wildfire.

  In this moment, my senses have been seduced, and I can no longer think straight.

  Breaking off our kiss, she whispers, “Cody,” prolonging each letter as if to savor them. I smile, my heart fluttering at her voice.

  I rest my head on her forehead as we both struggle to catch our breath.

  Someone behind me clears his throat. “Um, Dalton, we have company.” Dude tries to be tactful, but isn’t successful. No one could have been under the circumstances.

  Prying my eyes away from Ava, I turn toward Dude. Three men in bad suits stand in the doorway of the café car behind him.

  Suits that bad can only belong to FBI agents.

  “Master Chief Dalton, we need you to come with us,” one of the agents says, stepping forward.

  “And you are?”

  “Special Agent Matthews, sir. I’ll need both of you to follow me,” the agent adds, motioning his chin toward Dude.

  I turn to Ava, whose face falls. “Ava needs to come too. After all, she’s the one who noticed their uniforms were off,” I insist.

  Special Agent Matthews turns to the other two agents. They confer, and one of them nods their head. Turning back to us, he mutters, “Fine. But we need to go.”

  Without thinking, I reach for her hand. The adrenaline in my system is starting to wane, and I’m sure hers is doing the same. She places her tiny fingers in mine—no hesitation. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” She takes a hesitant step, using my grip as leverage. I place my other arm around her waist and guide her through the train. Watching her step, I lead her to the open door. I jump down, then put my hands on her waist. Being careful not to hurt her, I lift her off the metal floor and place her softly on the grass.

  Police cars swarm the area, helping the hostage-held passengers disembark the train. Some stumble out on their own—some need help. We walk past EMS workers who rush to help the injured. All in all, the area looks like a war zone.