Clack-clack. Clack-clack.
Brea gasped, sucking in a massive lungful of cold, stale air. Her eyes snapped open.
Her palms met the rough, intact denim of cheap jeans.Her breathing hitched. She turned her head.
The reflection in the grimy train window stared back at her. It was her own face, unburned, dirt-smudged, and exactly eighteen years old.
She pressed her hand flat against her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs, strong and steady.
The memory of the warehouse fire collided violently with the sight of the worn-out train cabin.
She looked down. A faded canvas duffel bag sat by her worn sneakers.
The realization hit her like a physical blow to the gut. She was back. This was the night train to New York. The exact day the Sinclair family had brought her back from the Rust Belt.
It was also the exact day they had hired dark web contractors to stage an "accident" before she ever reached the city.
A heavy metallic clank echoed from the connection space between the train cars.
Brea's muscles locked. She sprang up from the cracked vinyl seat, grabbed the canvas bag, and slung the strap over her shoulder.
She peeked through the frosted glass panel.
Two men in worn denim jackets and dark baseball caps stood in the aisle of the next car, appearing at first glance like ordinary late-night travelers. However, Brea's hardened instincts immediately caught the unnatural rigidity in their posture and the heavy, unmistakable bulge of concealed firearms hidden beneath their casual coats.
One of them held up a printed photograph, discreetly comparing it to the sleeping passengers in the seats.
The man suddenly snapped his head up, his gaze locking directly onto the glass door where Brea stood.
Brea spun around and broke into a dead sprint toward the opposite end of the car.The old train violently lurched on the uneven tracks. Brea lost her footing. Her body pitched hard to the right.
Her right shin smashed brutally against the sharp metal edge of an exposed luggage rack. A sickening tear of pain shot from her bone straight up to her spine.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, swallowing the scream that tried to claw its way out of her throat. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. She gripped the back of a passenger seat and forced herself to stand, her right leg trembling violently.
The electronic chime of the automatic sliding door sounded behind her. Heavy, urgent combat boots pounded against the floorboards of her car.
Brea dragged her bleeding leg forward. She shoved her way through the narrow corridor leading into the first-class VIP section.
At the very end of the plush hallway, a heavy walnut door stood slightly ajar.
She threw her entire body weight against the wood, tumbling into the dark room. She twisted around on the floor, kicked the door shut, and slammed the palm of her hand against the brass deadbolt.
Click.
She slumped against the cold wood of the door, her chest heaving as she dragged in ragged breaths.
Then she heard it. A harsh, irregular sound cutting through the silence. Someone struggling to breathe.
