And then he was on them. He released another enormous shout, howling as he surged toward them. “Die!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
John, suddenly noting the trajectory of the cart, and noting Adele was directly in the path of the careening chunk of metal on wheels, moved first with a shout, lunging forward. Adele hadn’t been idle, either, though, and was quickly moving, trying to put herself between the seats, to shield herself from the cart. But Richard and Bella, the two friends of Margaret, were caught up with each other, and as Adele pressed near them for shelter, Richard grunted and stiff-armed her, shoving her away and saying, “Get off me.”
Adele was sent back out into the aisle. John, seeing this, cursed. He lurched forward, grabbed at Adele, and pushed her bodily on top of Richard. At the same time, this brought John into direct contact with the surging cart. It slammed into his hip and sent the tall Frenchman toppling over it. John yelled in pain as he went flying, rolling across a pile of peanuts and water bottles, and then flipped over the other side. The Frenchman, despite the sudden motion, tried to snag at the valet’s shoulder.
But he missed. The slight form of the young staff member moved quickly and then reached out and flipped off two of the lights that had already been turned on. Again, darkness filled the cabin. One light at the very back of the compartment illuminated where John had fallen, groaning, trying to push back to his feet after getting pounded by a ton of wheeled metal and snacks. For her part, Adele desperately cried, “Turn on your lights!”
But the valet was quick, and he turned off the final reading light.
Now, the passengers seemed confused. On one hand, they heard a shouted instruction from someone who claimed to be a federal agent from France. On the other, someone in an actual uniform, one of the staff members they were familiar with, was flipping off their lights. And so, fear and uncertainty seemed to stay their hands. And again, darkness swallowed them.
“Just die,” the valet sneered, his voice like oil, slick and anxious.
Adele’s own weapon moved about, but again, in the dark, it was impossible to aim until she suddenly felt a hand grip her wrist.
She cursed, struggling, bumping against the cart that had sent her partner flying. She heard more shouting. She felt a hand shove at her again, and Richard’s voice, “Get off me!”
She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to reach out and slap at Bella’s boyfriend. She needed her full attention now fixed on the unseen form of the valet. She heard a quiet huffing and desperate breaths as he struggled, trying to grip her wrist and push her away. At the same time, she remembered what she’d spotted in his other hand. She couldn’t see the syringe now, moving about somewhere in the dark.
In her mind’s eye, she pictured a presumed trajectory. She’d tangled with knife-wielding suspects before. They always stabbed a certain way. The valet couldn’t sweep in an arcing fashion, as the seats around him would prevent the motion. So his hand would be above, stabbing downward.
Lobbing a desperate prayer, she raised her own forearm, her one hand still gripped by the wrist, but the other free to maneuver in a blocking motion.
And suddenly, something firm slammed against her upraised forearm. Bone clashed against bone. She heard a grunt of pain. For a moment, she listened, hoping to hear the clatter of the syringe. But the valet was strong, and he didn’t seem to lose his grip.
She cursed and lashed out, kicking. She’d been aiming for his legs, but missed, and instead, in the dark, kicked the trolley.
He was too close now for her to shoot. He gripped the wrist of her hand holding the firearm. She tried to aim, but it was impossible. The gun was pointed up toward the ceiling.
“Just die,” he screamed. “You killed him. And so you die.”
Adele didn’t know what he was talking about. But if he was talking, it meant he was distracted from stabbing. And so, grunting, and heaving a breath of exertion, she gasped, “Who? I didn’t do anything. Stop moving!”
“You killed him! You made him suffer, and you killed him!”
And then the young man tried to reach for her neck, releasing his grip on her forearm. She moved her hand with the gun. Another reading light switched on, this time again from the old man.
Adele cursed as the valet realized his mistake. He spotted the firearm, and suddenly pushed her hand back again. Again, the weapon was pointed toward the ceiling.
Just beyond, Adele spotted John grunting and rising. He was bleeding from a gash over his forehead, a jagged cut along his forearm. In pain and injured, he saw Adele’s plight, and with a growl bodily flung himself over the snack car, trying to reach her.
But he was moving slowly, encumbered by his injuries, and Adele glimpsed the syringe. The reading light from the old man showed the syringe next to Adele’s neck. A needle was jabbing toward her. She could feel it scrape against her shoulder, just missing.
She didn’t know what sort of toxin he’d used. But it had killed three people. Just an inch away. A fraction of an inch. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be next. What could she do, though? Her hands were tied up. They were locked in their struggle. The needle was in his grip, more deadly than her gun in such close proximity.
And suddenly, the train emerged from the weather tunnel and came to a final, scraping halt. It was a climactic moment of motion. Everything went still. Light suddenly flooded through the train again. Another voice announced something over the black speakers above the windows. But this time, Adele couldn’t hear what it was saying, as she was too focused on the needle, now against her neck. She could feel it pressing, feel it practically nip against her skin. The needle suddenly jabbed in, hard, and she cursed.
She’d released her grip on his forearm. But intentionally.
The needle wasn’t the threat. It was the contents inside the shot itself. And while the needle was in her neck. He hadn’t yet pushed the plunger. She grabbed the edge of the shot, pressing her thumb directly between the plunger and the stem of the shot.
The valet cursed, trying to inject the toxin, but failing. With the needle in her neck, as close to death as she’d ever been, Adele fired her gun.
Once, twice.
Still aiming at the ceiling. Still without any sort of trajectory on the killer himself.
But she didn’t need it to be. The gun was next to his ear. It fired, and Adele jerked her head back as she did, aware of just how loud the thing could be in close quarters.
The valet suddenly shouted in pain—the flash of the muzzle, the horrific blast directly next to his left ear. He screamed, and suddenly, his hand went limp. Adele yanked the plunger from his grip, and pulled the needle from her neck.
She lashed out with the butt of the gun, slamming it into the bridge of the valet’s nose. He took a couple of stumbling steps back; blood erupted from his nose and poured down his lips.
For a moment, he stood there, and they were no longer in the dark. The train was at a full stop. And the valet stood in front of the snack cart he’d used as a battering ram, one hand clutched to his ear, the other shaking and trembling where he’d dropped the syringe. Blood flowed freely down his nose. He stared at Adele, wide-eyed, stammering, and shook his head. “I don’t, I didn’t—”
And then Agent John Renee tackled him full force from behind. The valet’s head snapped back, and he was sent crashing to the ground with all of John’s muscular frame behind him, bringing him to a thumping halt against the floor of the train car.