Page 6 of Ground Truth

Flint steered the microlight down, gaining speed.

As expected, the locomotive passed under him, maybe two hundred feet below. He counted the carriages. There would be twelve.

When he counted number six, he steadied his nerve and angled down hard, almost at a collision course.

The carriages continued to pass him, but he was gaining speed all the time.

The last carriage barely crawled past as he descended the final thirty feet.

With one hand steering the microlight and the other reaching out, he grabbed a ladder that ran up the rear of the carriage onto the roof.

The speed difference between the train and his microlight yanked at his arm and slammed him onto the top of the carriage. His head hit the roof. Lights twinkled in his vision and his balance swam.

Everything seemed to go dark.

The microlight’s wings gained lift as the train raced forward, trying to lever him up and back.

Flint slid an arm through the ladder rungs as he fought the desire to roll on his back and ease the pain in his head. It took a moment for the word “concussion” to register in his brain.

The microlight bounced up and down, its wings snapping from side to side in the draft. He reached for the emergency release to separate himself from the craft, but it wasn’t there.

He ran his hand over the strap around his chest, fumbling, searching for the buckle.

He realized he held the wrong strap. This one was holding the Stradivarius on his back.

Flint blinked and refocused his efforts. Breathing hard to oxygenate and clear his head.

The release buckle he needed was under his arm. He found it and jerked it open. With a hard jolt, the microlight ripped itself free.

Flint caught the blurry sight of the microlight tumbling through the air before it disappeared in the darkness. A fraction of a second later, the train entered the tunnel.

The noise was deafening. He could feel the blast of air trapped between the train and the roof a couple of feet above his head.

He crawled backward, squeezing himself as low as possible and moving rung to rung along his belly until he was off the roof and on the rear of the train. He was still dizzy. He clung to the ladder for a minute to regain his balance and slow his breathing.

The ladder wasn’t intended to be used while the train was moving. There was nowhere to step at the bottom. The ground was moving beneath him, making him even more dizzy.

He reached for the door to the rear of the train and twisted the stiff handle.

As the door opened, he leapt from the ladder into the rear of the train, stumbled on the floor until he regained his balance, and closed the door behind him.

He’d entered a giant cotton cocoon filled with nothing but shocking silence.

Not just the contrast from the noise on the roof but also the faces of an entire carriage filled with passengers staring at him.

He staggered forward. No point in waiting.

“Inspections up top,” he mumbled as he struggled past the curious passengers.

Flint took the door to the next carriage and kept going.

After he passed through a couple of carriages, no one paid attention to him.

He moved through a small café and into the first-class section at the front of the train. Here, passengers were sectioned off in cabins. Most had their window blinds raised.

He peered into the café as he passed until he found the person he was looking for, Maria Blunt. She was sitting alone.

He opened the door and stepped in. The woman rose, an astonished look on her face.

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