Rogue Faction Part 1

by Xander Weaver

  Pulling the large man’s legs in toward his chest, Cyrus leveraged him. Finally able to close the door, he and the still twitching body of his would-be killer were stuck in limbo between cars.

  The small section of platform was dark; the only light spilled in from the tiny window to the adjoining cars on either end of the three-foot wide space. Since the next car was dark, Cyrus had little light with which to work.

  Retrieving a folding knife from his pocket, its razor sharp blade snapped open in an instant. He set to work cutting a slit in the heavy, flexible rubber gasket that comprised the wall of the tiny chamber.

  Since the train followed a track that would twist and turn, rise and fall, in every possible permutation, the train cars were joined in a way that allowed for such movement. The tiny platforms located between cars had hard composite floors for passengers to move about, but the walls of the small chambers needed to adjust with every move the train made as it followed the tracks. For that reason, the walls were a thick rubbery material that folded and flexed, like the baffles of an accordion—a space rigid enough to provide safety for people, but still allowing the flexibility necessary for the train to function.

  Cyrus was cutting a slit in the accordion rubber wall. He kept his incision vertical. Ideally, the cut would go unnoticed for some time. There was a chance that, if he made the incision cleanly, upon inspection it would appear that the material had simply given way to the stress and wear of daily rigors. In the end, it didn’t matter. Cyrus only needed his work to go unnoticed until he and Gladd were safely off the train in Hamburg.

  Once the slit was cleanly cut from floor to ceiling, Cyrus pocketed the knife. Glancing back into the lit dining car, he confirmed that he was still alone. Well, almost alone. The sleeping woman still slumbered at the table at the far end of the room.

  Good enough.

  Parting the sides of the cut wall, Cyrus pushed his head through the opening. He was instantly slapped by the chilling wall of air rushing by the outside of the train. His eyes began to water from the onslaught. It took precious moments for him to blink away the moisture and clear his vision.

  He was relieved at what he found. They were in a rural area surrounded by mostly farmland. The moon was full, leaving the landscape bathed in a cold pale glow. A telephone pole flashed by, and the thought made him cringe. He wished he’d cut the slit on the opposite side of the car, but it was too late now. A quick glance at the trackside rail bed beyond the edge of the train confirmed what he expected. It was going by in a blur, but it looked to be gravel that sloped away in a short, steep grade.

  He didn’t have time to waste and knew this would be the hard part. The German was large. First, he shifted the man as best he could into a sitting position. Bending over, Cyrus wrapped his arms around the man, grabbing low, just under his arms, and jamming his shoulder in the center of the man’s chest. With a grunt, he lifted the dead man’s bulk.

  It was a slow, painful process just getting the German off the floor. Cyrus felt every muscle in his back and legs strain to the point where he feared something might tear. But he didn’t have time to make a second attempt, and he certainly didn’t have time to go back for Gladd’s assistance. So, without additional options, he continued to lift.

  After what felt like a lifetime, Cyrus had the man in the air. Well, as far ‘in the air’ as he would manage given the circumstances. The man more or less hung over Cyrus’s shoulder in what would be charitably called a fireman’s carry. Still, the giant’s feet were off the ground and, with a little luck, Cyrus hoped he could push him through the slit in the wall without falling right along with him.

  The train rocked beneath his feet, threatening to undermine his balance at any moment as the cacophony of near deafening background noise assaulted his senses. The sounds of the train blasting across the surface of the rails combined with the rush of the wind. Without insulation to suppress it, the auditory assault was dizzying. Cyrus’s senses were on overload. All the while, the oxygen level in his blood was thinning…all because he needed to get rid of the body in a way that wouldn’t compromise his mission.

  Rolling his eyes, Cyrus gave in to the realization that there was no perfect way to accomplish the task at hand.

  Why couldn’t it be a midget? James Bond had been attacked by a midget assassin, hadn’t he?

  To hell with it!

  Lowering the man’s feet to the floor, Cyrus squared the back of the body to the slit in the wall. He placed the side of his boot in front of the giant’s massive feet, wedging them between his own boot and the wall of the vestibule. Then, he pushed the man over hard, flinging the body like a felled tree. The head and shoulders went first and, as soon as the weight started to come off his shoulder, Cyrus immediately raised his hands and leveraged his arms to speed the body’s exit from the train.

  The head and shoulders of the large German disappeared as the cut expanded to allow his bulk to follow. The body picked up speed as Cyrus shoved. The lower extremities seemed almost to be sucked from the enclosure as the process was completed. This was followed instantly by a thundering, hollow thud.

  Cyrus dropped to his knees in exhaustion. The open rush of air that had buffeted the tiny compartment disappeared the moment the body was gone and the folds of the rubber wall slapped shut once more. Only the deafening thunder of the surrounding ambient noise remained. That, and the memory of the horrible ‘thud’ that’d somehow managed to penetrate the background clatter.

  Though he hoped he’d imagined it, Cyrus knew with certainty that the sound had been real. And while he had taken the man’s life, that sound somehow seemed unfair. He realized the assassin’s body had caught a passing telephone pole on its way out of the train. Even though the man was dead prior to the impact, Cyrus still felt a chill run down his spine at the thought of the harsh impact.

  Pulling the door shut, Cyrus re-entered the dining car. He was out of breath and his face was dripping with perspiration. The entire ordeal felt as if it had taken an hour, though only minutes had passed. Suddenly the hours that remained before the train reached Hamburg didn’t seem like such a bad thing. He could use the rest.

  But who was the German? Why was he here, and how had he found him? No one knew he would be on this train. Hell, Cyrus reasoned, he’d only found out about the train a few hours before stepping aboard. On second thought, the rest of the trip might not come so easily.

  Cyrus righted the chairs that had toppled when he felled the German. Then he dropped into his own seat. With a deep breath, he retrieved his phone, still in its place atop the table. He tapped out a quick message to Gladd.

  > Status update?

  The reply came back almost instantly.

  > Package secure.

  It was a relief. Whatever the German had been up to, at least it didn’t have anything to do with the courier. Gladd would sit on the man until they arrived at the station in Hamburg.

  Still…if the German wasn’t here for the courier, Cyrus knew he must’ve been the target. But why? Cyrus wished he’d had a chance to get some information before killing him. Not that he’d had a choice in the matter. And since Cyrus needed to keep the train ride from becoming a bloodbath, he’d been forced to act decisively.

  Still, something was wrong.

  His eyes dropped back to the display of his phone. Gladd’s message still read clearly, and Cyrus considered it.

  It seemed like paranoid operational overkill, but why not. He picked up the phone and entered a new message.

  > Alpha kilo tango one. Authenticate.

  When a ‘known’ reply to his message was not immediately sent, Cyrus felt his pulse quicken. He pulled his messenger bag from the floor and placed it on the seat beside him. His eyes watched the phone’s display closely, as if his attention would bring the desired response more quickly.

  As he waited for Gladd to respond, Cyrus’s mind was working through scenarios and solutions. But as much as he tried, he simply didn’t have enough data with whic
h to assemble workable scenarios. No one knew he was here, yet there was clearly evidence to the contrary. The German had meant to kill him.

  What the hell is going on?

  Cyrus realized that there was only one place he might find answers to his questions. Unfortunately, if Gladd was out of play, their cabin was the last place on the entire train that he should go.

  Still, there was no way around it. He needed to return to their compartment; he needed to know what had happened to Paul Gladd.

  The sudden buzz of the silenced phone drew Cyrus’s attention. It was a new message.

  > Delta whisky seven one.

  Cyrus released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes remained locked on the screen, as if staring at the words would somehow offer greater insight or explanation.

  The code was authentication, confirming Gladd was alright. The same code ending in seven-seven would’ve indicated that he was under duress, so that wasn’t the case. Still, that didn’t explain the delay in Gladd’s response. While he was sure there was a logical explanation, Cyrus couldn’t help being suspicious. His eyes wandered to the exit at the rear of the dining car where he’d dragged the German’s body.

  He had plenty of reasons to be suspicious.

  Chapter 23

  Express train out of Paris, France

  12:17 am

  Fire lanced through Paul Gladd’s body as he struggled to pull himself from the darkness. The sound of his own heartbeat rang out like rapid rifle shots in his ears, and though he struggled simply to raise his head, he found that he could not. To his shock, neither could he move his arms or legs. It wasn’t like they’d been restrained—more like they were no longer attached.

  Soon, he realized that it was a struggle to even breathe. He managed his next lung full of air, but only with immense effort. It was as if his body’s normal functions were no longer automatic. Even drawing breath took a concerted effort.

  All he knew with any certainty was that an absolute, crushing level of pain surrounded him. He felt bathed in it. It was as if every nerve ending in his body had been sanded raw and then lit on fire.

  My God! Is this it? Is this how it feels to die?

  When he choked on his own breath, some remaining rational part of his mind finally managed to assert itself. He realized if death were the case, the pain would soon be over. But the sense of pain without awareness of his limbs seemed reminiscent in some way. Despite himself, no matter how he struggled to hold onto the tiny bit of sanity at the back of his mind, he felt consciousness slipping away—giving in fully to darkness and agony.

  Drawing another ragged breath, Gladd tried to calm himself. He was certain that he was screaming, though he couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice.

  Sound…

  Then it registered…in the distance. It was difficult to distinguish over the thunderous crash of his own heartbeat, but there was something more out there. Something rhythmic…something familiar.

  He drew another breath and focused on the unusual tones. This breath came slightly easier. Now, if he could just do something about the pain.

  Focus!

  The sounds… Over the racing heartbeat came a slow, steady tapping noise. But beyond that was something more. It sounded like…

  Voices!

  Immediately he tried to call out for help, but his breath was once again sucked away as a new level of pain struck his body, like a tsunami making landfall. It was staggering, and the darkness threatened to overtake him once more.

  With a start, he sensed a blue flash where he thought his eyes should be. It was hard to be sure in the absolute darkness of the void, but with the next surge of pain came another jagged streak of muddied bluish lighting. The color flashed more vividly with each crest of pain, only to fade to black like the end of an old movie when the pain level dropped back to its previous insufferable level.

  That’s when it occurred to him. Gladd waited for the next streak of blue, and despite the unpleasantness, it confirmed his suspicion. He was now certain he’d experienced this sensation before. Fighting with the crippling pain and his desire to understand, Gladd called desperately to the rational part of his mind once more. He didn’t know what was happening, but it was somehow familiar.

  Still, he couldn’t place it.

  There, again in the extreme distance he caught what seemed to be a hint of a voice. No—voices! Two of them. Straining, he tried to understand the words. As he struggled to comprehend, he was struck by the realization that his breathing was becoming a less deliberate exercise and more automatic.

  That was something.

  He focused further on the voices, realizing that they might be his only path to salvation.

  Chapter 24

  Express train out of Paris, France

  12:17 am

  Magda Keller paced slowly across the small confines of the private cabin. Her eyes were pinched, and she flexed her gloved hands into fists as she stalked. Mongo should’ve reported in by now! It had been a mistake not to send her husband, Brolin, along to eliminate the junior of the two agents. But of the two, she’d expected the senior member, Paul Gladd, to put up the greater fight. That hadn’t been the case.

  She and Brolin had entered the cabin, catching Gladd completely unaware. He’d had his back to the door, letting them slip silently into the room. The agent had apparently been making some adjustments to the full body cast of the man confined to the wheelchair. Still, she’d only just touched her Taser to Gladd’s skin and the man went down hard. Harder, in fact, than anyone she’d ever seen. The jolt from the Taser apparently triggered some sort of epileptic fit, because the next thing she knew Gladd was sprawled across the floor, jerking and seizing. His mouth quickly began to froth with foamy bubbles, and his eyes rolled so far back in his head that he looked like a man possessed.

  Though she and her husband considered themselves consummate professionals, they were both taken aback by the shocking violent display. Still, moments later, Brolin had the man trussed hand and foot, bound on the bench in the corner of the room. Gladd hadn’t moved since. He only leaned against the window, his head hung so far forward that his chin nearly touched his chest. If not for the irregular rise and fall of his chest, she would’ve thought him dead. She’d never seen anything like it.

  Magda looked at her husband. He stood in the corner, his shoulder resting casually against the wall. Though he looked apathetic, she knew better. He was as unnerved as she that Mongo was overdue in reporting in. And though both were reticent to admit it, neither wanted to risk contacting him to check his status.

  Magda and Brolin Keller were a husband and wife bounty hunting team working the whole of the European Union. They specialized in the sort of ‘big ticket, high value’ bounties that normal hunters were wary of. They stalked the worst of the worst, such as, war criminals, gangsters, and even the wealthy sort who employed contingents of private security to protect them. If there was a price on a target’s head and they were considered too dangerous for a conventional hunter, it was the sort of job Magda and Brolin focused on. Assassination jobs were out of the ordinary, but they’d still done more than their share.

  ‘Wetwork’, as it was known in the industry, wasn’t Magda’s preference, but it kept them busy when more legitimate work was difficult to come by. So, between bona fide jobs, they often took assignments as freelancers for different problem solving groups. Those groups were like temporary employment agencies for mercenaries of various disciplines. And while the work wasn’t Magda’s first choice, she really didn’t have a problem with it. That type of work was simply prone to greater complications. Moral ambiguity was required, which was not a problem. Magda could justify just about anything if the price was right.

  While she and Brolin always worked together, when occasions arose and they needed a little extra muscle, they’d bring Mongo along. Mongo was six–foot-eight and had to weigh at least two seventy-five, as close as she could figure. He was big and strong, and al
though not terribly bright, he did what he was told—that was all Magda really needed in a subordinate.

  “You’re going to make me be the one to say it, aren’t you?” Brolin asked in English that carried a thick German accent.

  She looked at him and slowly shook her head. “No,” she admitted. “I’ve been thinking the same. We should’ve heard from Mongo by now.”

  “Our contact suggested that these two would be trouble.”

  She nodded, and continued to pace. “Yes. But when he said that the young one would be the handful, we both thought he was making fun.”

  “Maybe not,” he admitted. “I’ll go check on him. His last report was from the dining cars, yes?”

  She nodded. “Just make sure you—”

  The small radio on the bench opposite Gladd’s unconscious form came to life with a chirp. Magda spun and stared at the box as if it held the secrets to the universe. Her glance shifted to her husband who looked equally concerned.

  With a growing sense of unease, she crossed the cabin and retrieved the device. When she raised the display to examine it, her husband was already looking over her shoulder.

  > Status update?

  With that simple message, Magda knew why Mongo hadn’t reported back. They’d underestimated the younger agent.

  “Scheiße!” her husband growled into his clenched fist. “Do you think Mongo’s…”

  “Dead?” she completed his hanging statement. She would wager money on it, though she feared that saying so aloud might invite bad fortune. Offering only a stoic stare, she simply shrugged her shoulders. Then, giving it more thought, she nodded slowly.

  “Verdammt,” Brolin mumbled to himself. It was his turn to pace.

  “I think the agent was here securing the man in the wheelchair,” she said with a degree of confidence. The man in the body cast had been unconscious when they arrived, and there was a hypodermic needle still out among the supplies Gladd had used on the patient. Additionally, the plaster cast had not fully set when they arrived. The surface of the material had still been damp to the touch. “We’re not flying blind here. We have a good idea what the agent was doing when we ambushed him.”