The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 12

  Marcus was awake by midnight, but not wanting to disturb Sam, sat quietly in the darkened room. He opened the shade and watched the shadowy terrain zip past as the steady rhythm of the train lulled him into a trance-like state. A soft knock snapped Marcus back to reality and sent him reaching for his pistol. Marcus stood and glanced at Sam to see if the sound had woken her. Unsurprisingly, she was still asleep. Marcus heard the tap again as he reached the door. Switching on the overhead light, he unlocked the latch and pulled open the door. He peered through the narrow space and recognized the young porter's features, who immediately explained himself.

  "Monsieur, I am very sorry to interrupt you—but you wanted to know if anyone asked about you."

  Marcus held up one finger. "Wait here."

  He closed the door, slipped the gun into the back of his waistband, and moved to where Sam slept. Marcus leaned over and gently shook her shoulders.

  "Sam." He shook her again. "Sam!"

  "Huh?" She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and looked around to gain her bearings. "Are we in Milan?"

  "No, not yet. But someone is asking about us."

  "Who?"

  "I'm not sure, but you need to get up."

  "Okay…"

  Marcus pulled open the door to find the porter fidgeting in the hallway. When he motioned for the young man to enter the compartment, the porter stepped across the threshold. He nodded to Sam as he moved to one side so Marcus could shut the door. He held his hat in both hands, wringing it back and forth as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Sam stood up and put their bunks away.

  "Let me, madame." The porter stepped forward to help.

  "No, thank you. I can manage."

  The Frenchman stopped in his tracks, stuffing his hat into his back pocket. He looked from Sam to Marcus, smiling apprehensively.

  "Well?" Marcus glared at the porter, his tone crushing the sheepish grin.

  "Oh, yes. I am so sorry. You asked me to tell you—no?—if anyone asked about you. I overheard a man speak to Dotel—the man asked if Dotel had seen any Americans board the train."

  "Who is Dotel?"

  "Ah, yes, you know Dotel. He is one who carried your bag."

  "Oh, that guy," Sam said.

  "Well, the stranger he have pictures too. Unfortunately, I no see them—but Dotel see them, and he said the person in pictures did board the train in Paris. The man smile and ask which car. Dotel not so sure until man give him two hundred Euros. You see, monsieur, Dotel like to drink wine very much. And women," he sighed, "oh, he really like the women. Most of them are so ugly, but he no care. The women do not like him, but they do like his money, especially when it is in their pockets."

  He paused, lost in thought for a moment.

  "Go on—" Marcus encouraged the Frenchman.

  "Oh, yes. After man give Dotel the money, he then know what car you in, even what cabin." He looked at Marcus. "I did good, yes?"

  Marcus stood silently staring at the ground as one hand rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  "Monsieur?"

  Marcus looked up.

  "Of course, you did a magnificent job." He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew his roll of money. He handed several bills to the porter, studying the young Frenchman. After a protracted silence he said, "Do you know the name of the man who asked about us?"

  "No, monsieur." He eyed the thick roll of money, his tongue sliding over his thin lips. He ran one hand through his greasy black hair, scratching a spot on the back of his head. "If you want, I find out for you?"

  "No, no. Say nothing at all to this man—nothing that would warn him about our conversation. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir. I no mind—I am very brave person." He tried to stand a bit taller to prove his fearlessness.

  "I'm sure you are. What's your name?"

  "Navarre."

  "It's nice to meet you, Navarre. We appreciate your help." Marcus glanced out the window. "Do you know where we are now?"

  The Frenchman dug into his pocket and pulled out a silver watch with no wristband. His features contorted as he stared at the watch and made a series of silent calculations. He looked up and announced, "We are three hundred kilometers from Milan."

  "Are we near any big cities?"

  "No, monsieur. There is nothing around here but fields and trees—and cows. Lots of cows."

  Marcus nodded, then reached over and turned off the light. He moved to the window and peered out into the darkness. The train sped through the night, the full moon bright enough to illuminate the gravel beside the tracks but not the dense forest beyond. Occasionally, a tiny farmhouse occupied a break in the tree line, cold and dark in the winter night.

  Marcus cursed under his breath and moved back to the middle of the room.

  Sam followed him. "You could make the jump without me."

  "Maybe."

  "You've got to do it. I'll keep them occupied." Her gaze was unwavering, the shadows from the moonlight glimmering across her face.

  "No. We'll find another way."

  Sam shook her head and flicked on the light. That was when she remembered the porter, who was waiting near the door. Sam looked to Marcus, her eyes pivoting toward Navarre. Marcus nodded and sat down on the bench as Sam motioned for Navarre to join them. The porter dipped his head and moved to sit next to Sam, across from Marcus. As he settled into the cushion, he stood up quickly, then smiling, reached back to remove his crumpled hat from his pocket.

  Can I trust him? Marcus studied the young Frenchman. Do I have a choice?

  Marcus leaned forward; so did Navarre.

  "Can you slow down the train?" The question was just above a whisper.

  Navarre recoiled as if Marcus had punched him in the face. His expression wavered between surprise and horror as he looked from Marcus to Sam. "Monsieur…monsieur, I am just a porter, not a conductor. I no can do such things."

  "Do you know anyone who can? I pay very well."

  "No, no, of course not!" Navarre pursed his lips, squeezing his hat until his knuckles grew white. "Well…maybe I can talk to my cousin—but monsieur, Sefe only a mechanic. I am not sure if he can slow down train."

  "All right, please speak with him, then come back and tell me what he says." Marcus studied his watch. "Can you be back in ten minutes?"

  "Yes, monsieur. But," Navarre paused for a moment, "My cousin will believe me. He will want to know you very serious."

  "I understand." Marcus stood, removing the wad once again. He peeled another ten bills and handed them to the astonished porter. "There will be a lot more if you can help us."

  "Yes, sir. I am sure he will help such honest people." Standing, Navarre slipped the Euros into his pocket. He bowed slightly as he backed away from Marcus and Samantha until he bumped into the door. "I be back in ten minutes."

  "Remember, not a word to anyone else," Sam said.

  "Of course, not a word." With that, he slipped out of the room.

  "Can we trust him?" Sam walked over and locked the door.

  Marcus shrugged. "Do we have a choice?"

  "Did I ever tell you how much confidence you inspire?"

  "No, you didn't, but I appreciate you noticing."

  Marcus pulled out the pop-up tabletop. He then grabbed his bag and pulled a map from a pocket, spreading it across the table.

  "If we're three hundred kilometers from Milan, that would put us approximately here." Marcus pointed to a spot halfway between the French border and Milan. "If we get off in twenty-five minutes, it should leave us here." He moved his finger over a small town. "We lie low and figure out our next move."

  "Sounds good."

  Marcus folded up the map. "Let's get ready."

  "This is gonna be fun. Have you ever jumped off a moving train?"

  "No…but someone threw me off one."

  "Again, not surprised."

  Marcus reached back for the pistol in his waistband and, sliding back the bolt, chambered a round. He stood and picked up the holster
, slipping in the handgun before doing the same on his second weapon. Satisfied, he slid on the holster and fastened the straps into place. He moved to the door, lifted his black leather coat from the peg, and slipped it on. Reaching into his bag, he removed another pistol and several clips, handing them to Sam.

  She paused for a moment, then took the weapon and magazines, dropping them onto the cushion. Sam put on her coat and placed the gun and clips into one of the outside pockets. Marcus looked at his watch, then at Sam.

  "He's not coming back." Sam slipped her bag over her shoulder and head with the strap across her chest. "You gave him a thousand Euros—there's no way he's coming back."

  "Maybe, but I trust in greed…and it rarely lets me down."

  "Nope. He's already planning his trip to Monte Carlo. He'll blow it all in five minutes on the roulette tables. We'll never see him again…"

  "Wanna bet?" Before she could answer, there was a light knock at the door. "Too late."

  Sam smirked as Marcus slipped one pistol free and unlatched the lock, cracking open the door. A familiar face greeted him with a toothy smile. Marcus replaced his gun in its holster and pulled the door open. The porter stepped into the compartment, moving to the center of the room. Marcus closed and secured the latch, then turned toward Navarre.

  "So?"

  "Yes, I spoke with my cousin, and he will slow down train. But Sefe can only do for very short time—maybe three or four minutes. You will have to jump very fast."

  "No problem." Marcus pulled the wad of money from his pocket once again, peeling a stack of bills off and handing them to Navarre. "When?"

  The Frenchman shoved the money into his pocket. "He says very soon the conductor take coffee break. He take many coffee breaks; maybe that is why he pee so much. I think I like to be conductor someday; they never have to clean the toilets or take dead animals from the train wheels—"

  "Navarre—" Marcus cut him off.

  "Yes? I very sorry, monsieur. Sefe will slow the engines down when conductor leave; he said he blow horn, then he wait ten seconds."

  "Good." Marcus shot a glance at Sam, then back to Navarre. "That should be perfect."

  "One more thing, monsieur."

  "Yes?"

  "The man who show pictures of you, he was talking with many men." Navarre's hands spread wide apart. "Very big men."

  "What were they saying?"

  "Well, monsieur, of course it is not so polite to listen to passengers when they talk to each other."

  "I understand, but you may have accidentally overheard their conversation?"

  "Yes, and since we now are such good friends, I have no reason to keep secrets."

  "Good, go on."

  "They talking about when they would do it—" Navarre raised his eyebrows. "I am not sure what it means, but it seemed very bad for you."

  "I bet," Marcus said. "Did they say when they were going to do it?"

  "I believe they say they do it when we reach the tunnel."

  "What tunnel?" Sam asked.

  "This tunnel—" Navarre pointed out the window where the trees disappeared into a black wall.

  "Are you kidding?" Marcus reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol.

  "No, monsieur!" Navarre squealed. "That what they say! Please no shoot me!"

  Marcus shook his head and looked toward the door just as the lights went out and the dull emergency lights kicked on.

  "Get down!" Marcus knelt beside the wall.

  Navarre did not listen. A flurry of bullets filled the room, several of them hitting the young Frenchman. A muffled thump reverberated through the compartment as the door swung inward. Seconds later, they heard a pop, followed by a loud hissing. Soon, the acrid stench of tear gas began filling the tiny cabin. Holding his breath, Marcus scrambled along the floor, stopping as he bumped into the outside wall of the compartment. He reached up around the table and unlatched the window, feeling the cold air rush past his fingers. It helped to dissipate some fumes, but it was not enough to clear the room. As he struggled with the window, a bright beam of light pierced the swirling haze, scanning the room from one side to the other. Lifting his pistol, Marcus fired several shots at the intruder, the rounds hitting his chest and knocking him back into the hallway.

  "Sam, cover the door!" Marcus shoved his gun into its holster.

  "Got it!"

  Marcus braced his legs and ripped the table from its hinges. The echo of gunfire filled the compartment as Sam began firing at any targets that moved across the doorway. Setting the tabletop down on its side, Marcus picked it up and swung it forward, smashing the wooden corner against the Plexiglas window. The pane buckled but did not break. Choking back tears, he tried to regain his grip on the laminate top. Stumbling back, he took several steps forward and heaved the slab against the window. There was a sharp pop, followed by a high-pitched sucking sound as the window disappeared into the darkness. As the crisp air swept away the choking vapors, Marcus dropped the table and wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt.

  The train exited the tunnel moments later, filling the room with silver moonlight.

  Marcus could see Sam, her sweater pulled around her mouth and nose, shoving home another clip. He turned back just in time to see a silhouette dash through the narrow opening, his pistol raised. Marcus stepped forward and buried the heel of his boot into the man's chest. He reached into his coat, pulled out his gun, and fired three shots into him as the man fell back toward the door. Before the body had slumped to the floor, Marcus was firing several rounds at each side of the opening through the compartment's thin walls. As the gunfire echoed through the carriage, he barely caught the lonely shrill of the train's horn. Moving toward the door, Marcus dropped the magazine from his weapon and reloaded it in one smooth motion. He freed his second pistol and braced himself against the wall, waiting for the train to slow.

  As promised, he felt and heard the engines fade, causing the train to lurch forward and then back. He stepped into the hallway and fired in both directions. The attackers, caught off balance, were easy targets in the tight confines of the hallway. After emptying his clips, he stepped back into the room and clicked the release on both guns, dropping the empty magazines to the floor. Pinning one pistol beneath his arm, he pulled a full magazine from his coat and slammed it home before slipping the weapon into the holster. He repeated the process for the other, but kept it in his hand and looked back toward Sam. She had a thin streak of blood running down her cheek.

  "Are you ok?"

  "Yeah, it's just a scratch." She looked down at the lifeless Frenchman. "That fucking sucks."

  "Yeah, he seemed like a good kid. But we got to go."

  Marcus leveled his gun and moved into the hallway. He stepped over the bodies and made his way toward the rear exit. Short stairwells led down both sides, each one ending in a set of sliding metal doors. Marcus leaned down, pressed the emergency exit button, and the door slid open.

  They were met once again by the frigid air, which now swept through the hallway and out the broken window. Marcus looked out the door at the passing landscape. True to his word, the mechanic had slowed the train. Satisfied, Marcus motioned for Sam to come down the steps.

  "I'll be right behind."

  She nodded and stepped down the stairs. She slipped the gun back into her jacket, arranged her backpack, and took a deep breath as she stepped off into the darkness.

  Marcus was just putting his gun away when a hand grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked him off his feet. His back smashed into the steps and knocked the wind from his lungs. Gasping, he looked for his assailant but only saw a meaty paw reaching for him as he squirmed away. Marcus tried to wrestle free his pistol, but the stranger wrapped his massive arms around him, pinning one arm to his side and the other across his chest. He was stuck. As the man tightened his grip, Marcus could smell his hot, putrid breath that reeked of sauerkraut and onions. His attacker leaned back, lifting Marcus off the ground and forcing more air from his achi
ng lungs. His vision blurred just as the train picked up steam.

  Marcus battled the creeping darkness, arched his back, and then drove his forehead into the man's nose. His assailant grunted and released his hold just enough for Marcus to slide his hand around the pistol grip. Reaching his finger forward, Marcus slipped it onto the trigger and tried to shift the barrel forward. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger, gasping as the slug entered his hip just below the waistline. His stunned opponent relaxed his embrace, allowing Marcus to twist the weapon farther. Marcus gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger again. This time the blast was accompanied by a burning sensation along his abdomen, followed by a groan from his captor. The man dropped Marcus to the floor like a sack of discarded laundry. The attacker grasped his stomach with both hands, a look of astonishment on his sweaty, moonlit face.

  As the man lunged forward, Marcus sat up and finally pulled the pistol free from its holster, firing round after round. After two empty clicks, Marcus stopped pulling the trigger and watched as the man slid down the steel bulkhead, a glistening trail in his wake.

  Marcus shoved the pistol back into its holster and crawled toward the steps. The forest was now streaking by. Faced with no other option, he slid down the grated stairs until he reached the bottom step. He groaned as he swung his legs around and hung them over the edge. Blood soaked his pant leg, and the wound in his hip throbbed. He took a deep breath, looked up into the pitch-black sky, and pushed himself off the train.

  The impact of his legs striking the ground sent shards of pain throughout his entire body. Completely out of control, he tumbled forward, his arms and legs battering the loose embankment. He could hear the train continue into the distance as he came to a stop near the bottom of the tracks, pebbles skittering around him. He lay still for a moment, staring at the clear winter night before passing out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The path of social advancement is, and must be,

  strewn with broken friendships.

  —H.G. Wells

  April 1453 A.D.