“Which is where exactly in the vast expanse that is Siberia?”
“About three hundred miles east of Chita. A lot of small villages lie nearby and even more forest. That means lots of territory to lose ourselves in.”
“I assume you don’t mean that literally. The downside of such isolation is that you’re going to have trouble finding transportation to Perm—at least low-visibility transport.”
“I think I’ve got an idea about that.”
“You know the saying: No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”
Tucker pictured Felice’s face. “We’ve already made contact with the enemy. So it’s time to get proactive.”
“Your call. You’re on the scene. Good luck with—”
From the door to his berth came a light knocking.
“I’ve got company,” he said. “I’ll call when I can. In the meantime, nothing to our friend in Perm, agreed?”
He didn’t want his new itinerary—improvised as it was—leaked out to the wrong ears.
“Understood,” Harper acknowledged.
He disconnected, walked to the door, and slid it open.
Felice leaned against the frame. “I trust it’s not past your bedtime?”
The expression on her face was one of coy invitation. Not too much, but just enough.
Well practiced, he guessed.
“I was just reading Kane a bedtime story.”
“I had hoped you’d join me for a late-night snack.”
Tucker checked his watch. “The dining car is closed.”
Felice smiled. “I have a secret cache in my berth. We could debate the literary merits of Anna Karenina.”
When Tucker didn’t immediately reply, Felice let a little sparkle into her eye and turned up the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.
She was very good, doing her best to keep her quarry close.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. Your berth is . . . ?”
“Next car up, second on the left.”
He closed the door, then turned to Kane. “Plans have changed, pal. We’re going now.”
Kane jumped off his seat. From beneath it, Tucker pulled free the shepherd’s tactical vest and secured it in place. Next he opened his wardrobe, hauled out his already-prepped rucksack, and shoved his cold-weather gear—jacket, gloves, cap—into the top compartment.
Once ready, Tucker slowly slid open his berth door and peeked out. To the right, the direction of Felice’s berth, the corridor was clear. To the left, an elderly couple stood at the window, staring out at the night.
With Kane at his heels, Tucker stepped out, slid the door shut behind him, and strode past the couple with a polite nod. He pushed through the glass connector door, crossed the small alcove between the two carriages, and pushed into the next sleeper car. The corridor ahead was thankfully empty.
Halfway down, he stopped and cocked his head. Kane was looking back in the direction they’d come.
Somewhere a door had opened, then banged shut.
“Come on,” Tucker said and kept walking.
He crossed through the next sleeper car and reached a glass door at the end. Beyond it, he spotted the small alcove that connected this carriage with the baggage coach.
As he touched the door handle, a voice rose behind him, from the far end of the corridor. “Tucker?”
He recognized her voice but didn’t turn. He slid open the door.
“Tucker, where are you going? I thought we were—”
He stepped into the alcove with Kane and slid the glass door closed behind him. The shepherd immediately let out a low growl.
Danger.
Tucker swung around and locked eyes with a porter sharing the same cramped space, standing in the shadows off to the side. He immediately recognized the man’s hard face, along with his deadly expression. It was one of Felice’s team. The man had exchanged his black leather duster for a porter’s outfit. Equally caught by surprise, the man lunged for his jacket pocket.
Tucker didn’t hesitate, kicking out with his heel, striking the man in the solar plexus. He fell back into the bulkhead, hitting his skull with a crack and slumping to the floor, knocked out.
He reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out a Walther P22 semiautomatic; the magazine was full, one round in the chamber, the safety off. He reengaged the safety and shoved the P22 into his own belt, then rummaged through the man’s clothes until he found a key ring and an identification badge.
The picture it bore didn’t match the slack face before him, but Tucker recognized the photo. It was the porter who had shyly petted Kane when they had first boarded. With a pang of regret, he knew the man was likely dead. Felice and company were playing hardball.
Tucker took the keys, spun, and locked the connector door just as Felice reached it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, feigning concern, a hand at her throat. “Did you hurt that poor man?”
“He’ll be fine. But what about the real porter?”
Doubt flickered in Felice’s eyes. “You’re talking crazy. Just come out and we can—”
“Your English accent is slipping, Ms. Nilsson.”
Felice’s face changed like a passing shadow, going colder, more angular. “So what’s your plan then, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. “Jump from the train and go where? Siberia is hell. You won’t last a day.”
“We love a challenge.”
“You won’t make it. We’ll hunt you down. Work with me instead. The two of us together, we can—”
“Stop talking,” he growled.
Felice shut her mouth, but her eyes were sharp with hatred.
Tucker stepped away from the door and unlocked the baggage car. He pointed inside and touched Kane’s side. “SCENT. BLOOD. RETURN.”
His partner trotted into the darkened space. After ten seconds, Kane let out an alert whine. He reappeared at Tucker’s side and sat down, staring back into the baggage car.
Tucker now knew the true fate of the unfortunate porter.
“We’re leaving,” he said to Felice. “If you’re lucky, no one will find the body before you reach Chita.”
“Who’s to say you didn’t kill him?” Felice said. “He caught you burglarizing the baggage car, you killed him, then jumped from the train. I’m a witness.”
“If you want to draw that kind of attention to yourself, be my guest.”
Tucker turned, stepped over the limp body of her partner, and entered the baggage car, closing the door behind him.