Page 62 of Last Violent Call
“So the syringe isn’t yours?”
This time, Kozlov’s hesitation was one of confusion, his brow furrowing as he gingerly got himself upright again. “What syringe?”
Benedikt cast a sidelong glance at Marshall. Marshall grimaced in response.
The illicit drugs on board had had nothing to do with Popov’s pharmaceuticals work. The syringe found in his room had had no relation to the smuggling that was going on concurrent to the murder, one carriage away.
“You may go, Mr. Kozlov,” Benedikt decided. “We believe you. Get to where you were needed before you are punished further.”
Kozlov seemed like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I can… go?”
“We can say you ran off and we couldn’t catch you.” Marshall shrugged. He and Benedikt knew what it was like to belong to a larger network, moving at the whims and demands of the people above. They could hardly fault how some needed to make a living. The blood on their hands was thick and plentiful when it came to criminal behavior. At least Kozlov wasn’t responsible for the actual crime they were investigating.
Kozlov nodded, picking up his briefcase and taking a few steps back without turning around, just in case it was a trick. The train, meanwhile, howled into the night with another whistle of steam, and then Benedikt and Marshall were too distracted anyway to watch Kozlov leave, because the wheels were suddenly groaning on the tracks, moving the train forward.
“Oh, no no no,” Marshall exclaimed. “Is it moving—?”
A small head poked out the window from the soft-class dining carriage, a vast distance away from where Benedikt and Marshall currently stood. Though it was hard to see anything more than a vague outline, given all the lights were clustered near the station, the voice was easily identifiable as Lev’s.
“Mr. Sokov! Mr. Marshall! I can’t get communication through to the engineer! Run for the last freight carriage! I can make them pause at the next stop!”
The train was already speeding up. At once, Benedikt and Marshall sprang forward—Marshall cursing under his breath and Benedikt intently watching the last carriage.
“Ben, we can’t get in.”
“Yes, we can,” Benedikt said. “I see the latch. We only need to get it open.”
They drew up alongside the last carriage, running at a speed that kept them at pace with the train. In seconds, though, the train would accelerate and leave them in the dust. It didn’t seem possible to act that quickly.
“Pistol!”
Marshall tossed his gun over. Benedikt caught it smoothly, then shot the latch, sparks of silver cascading down the tracks as metal struck metal. The freight carriages were very different from the passenger carriages—nothing more than a very large sliding door that almost resembled a barn entrance. There were no stairs that took a person up, so when Benedikt slammed his fist onto the freight door and slid the heavy metal open a fraction, he threw the pistol in first, then dared to get as close to the screeching wheels as he could before hauling himself into the carriage.
The train was accelerating. Marshall was lagging behind.
“Mars! Come on!”
“Wait, wait, wait, I don’t know how to pull myself up—”
Benedikt gripped the side of the freight door, then stretched his arm out, leaning half his body into the night. For a moment, it seemed that he wouldn’t be able to reach Marshall, that the train was pulling too far ahead and the distance was growing too great. But as soon as Marshall reached forward, Benedikt got a grip on his wrist and hauled him in without a second to spare, both of them collapsing onto the floor of the freight carriage.
“That was damnclose,” Benedikt panted into the dark.
Marshall was still lying on top of him, but neither made any effort to move, too busy trying to catch their breath. The dark freight container was crammed with boxes, if the cardboard corner nudging into Marshall’s shoulder was any indication. The train resumed full speed again. It bounced once on its tracks. The door had slid itself shut, keeping out the arctic temperature outside.
Marshall grasped Benedikt’s face, smacking a dozen kisses anywhere he could.
“You are my hero,” he declared. “Plucked me right up like a mighty rescuer.”
Benedikt spluttered a laugh. Though Marshall couldn’t see him properly without any light, he felt Benedikt’s grip tighten around him, their limbs still entangled.
“I would reroute the train with my bare hands before I left you behind,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How very romantic.”
“I know.” Benedikt nudged his chin closer, taking a proper kiss. The train floor was dusty, the steam engine howled like a wolf’s call around them, but Marshall leaned into the embrace without caution, taking the few seconds when they could pretend that the rest of the world had fallen away. Benedikt kissed like he painted: with consuming, frantic inspiration before slowing down to find the details and pinpoints.
They drew apart reluctantly. The door thudded to their side, its broken latch swinging back and forth against the exterior, beating out a rhythm.
