“Whew. Missed breakfast. Feeling weak.”

  He led us through the side door of the Crimebago. Heckle and Jeckle were on their laptops and didn’t acknowledge our presence. No snickering when I entered made me wonder if it was them, or Wyatt, who stole my clothes. Rosalina came in from the bedroom, and Chandler lifted up her leg and did the fastest ankle draw I’d ever seen, a Beretta Px4 sub-compact in her hand.

  “She’s Tequila’s,” I told her.

  “Careful,” McGlade said. “She doesn’t like guns.”

  Chandler put her foot on the sofa and holstered her weapon, and McGlade went into a pantry and broke out white bread, a plastic squeeze bottle of grape jelly, and Fruity Pebbles. He used all three ingredients to make himself a sandwich.

  “It would be quicker if you just injected sugar straight into your heart,” Chandler said. “But not by much.”

  “The NSA called earlier,” he told her. “They’re revoking your license to bitch.”

  “I don’t have a license,” Chandler said. “I bitch in an unofficial capacity.”

  “Harry, where’s your first aid stuff?”

  “Bedroom closet, behind the other emergency supplies.”

  I went to look. Apparently McGlade considered six boxes of Twinkies and a case of SpaghettiOs “emergency supplies”. I grabbed the substantial med kit, and returned to the living area. Chandler was sitting at McGlade’s computer, holding something that looked like a cell phone, but not quite.

  “I ran the tracks through the Google database,” said Chandler, using her thumbs on the device’s touch screen. “They belong to a LeTourneau LCC-1 Sno-Train.”

  “Google has a tire track database?” McGlade asked. He had jelly on his chin, with Fruity Pebbles stuck to it.

  “Google has indexed over a trillion URLs. My sister wrote a program to match and compare tire tracks.”

  “Which sister? The one in the wheelchair who’s hot for me? Or the crazy psycho who I’ve tapped on multiple occasions?”

  “The one in the wheelchair who thinks you’re sleazy.”

  McGlade nodded. “She wants me.”

  “I’m cutting off your shirt,” I said to Chandler, using some non-stick medical scissors.

  Chandler didn’t seem to notice. “It’s a big vehicle. They call it a train for a reason. I assumed they were using some sort of roof camouflage to keep it invisible to satellites. I confirmed that doing a quick check of the surrounding two hundred square miles. The computer didn’t locate anything. But something that big will still leave a signature.”

  “Fuel exhaust,” McGlade said.

  “That’s the scan I ran. Nothing came up. But while I was letting Jack slap me around, I had an idea.”

  “You weren’t letting me do it,” I said, “and your full attention was on me the whole time.”

  “With only about ten percent of my attention focused on Jack—”

  “Liar.”

  “—I realized that a vehicle that big would use a ridiculous amount of fuel. No way it’s going to fill up at the local Amoco.”

  “This is going to sting,” I said, pouring isopropyl alcohol on Chandler’s bullet wounds.

  Chandler didn’t flinch.

  “What are you thinking?” McGlade asked. “Hybrid? Solar?”

  “It’s probably some combination of energy sources. So I asked the computer to look for a range of heat signatures.”

  “And?” I asked.

  Chandler checked her watch. “And the next satellite flyover is in four minutes. We’ll know if it worked then.”

  “You own a satellite?” said Heckle.

  “No. I hacked a satellite,” Chandler looked at McGlade. “Who are these guys?”

  “My videographers.”

  “They’re creepy. Tell them not to talk to me again or I’ll kick their asses.”

  “Do you want stitches?” I asked.

  “Am I still bleeding?”

  “No.”

  “Then just bandage me up.”

  As I applied gauze pads and tape, McGlade made himself another sandwich. This one with Nutella and Frosted Flakes. When he noticed us staring, he asked, “You guys want one?”

  Chandler and I declined.

  I finished taping her up just as her phone-thingy beeped.

  “Okay, we should know in just a few seconds,” she said, looking at the screen.

  We waited, and I hoped so hard that this was going to work.

  Another beep.

  “Got them,” Chandler said. “They’re seven kilometers away.”

  “Run the edited footage!” McGlade ordered the twins, dropping his sandwich on the floor. “We need to go live in three minutes! Go, guys, go!”

  Here we come, Herb.

  Here we come.

  YURI

  Fixed,” Dmitri said over the intercom. “We can go when you give the order.”

  It was coincidental timing, because Yuri’s men had just finished inventory of the packed buckets of raw opium.

  They were two hundred and fifty-five kilos shy of quota.

  Bratva was paying US thirteen hundred dollars per kilo. Which meant Yuri would be out over three hundred thousand dollars.

  Yuri was furious. The money wasn’t the main issue. He could get the money. The problem was coming up short on the promised amount. Bratva didn’t play around.

  He swore, Russian obscenities spitting form his mouth like dragon fire.

  All of these years. All of this work put in. Acquiring and running the land train. The payoffs. The risks. The technology. Plus the diplomacy. Besides Bratva, Yuri had made promises to other organizations. To other countries. They’d invested, heavily, in Yuri’s plan to assassinate the reigning president of Belarus.

  It might all fall apart now, over a few hundred kilos of paste.

  “Vehicle approaching. It’s Cowboy.”

  The Cowboy.

  It was the Cowboy’s fault.

  And she expected to buy the LeTourneau at the agreed-upon price? When failing to keep up her end of their agreement?

  Yuri left Car #7 and walked to Car #9, where the Cowboy was parking.

  “We are short,” Yuri said as the Cowboy exited the vehicle.

  The Cowboy stared for a moment, then asked, “How much>“

  “Almost three hundred kilos.”

  The Cowboy didn’t say anything.

  “You know the meeting is tomorrow. You know the consequences.”

  Still no response.

  “I’ve told you the cost of launching a satellite into space, with ten tons of cargo. You expect me to sell you the train. Tell me, Cowboy, why your dreams should come true, when mine do not.”

  The Cowboy just stared. Eyes as dead as coals.

  “I also know about your… thing. With the American.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Finally! A reaction! Allow me to explain your business. Your business was to ensure we met quota. If you think that—”

  “I’ll cover it.”

  “Cover it?”

  “I’ll cover your loss.”

  Yuri guffawed. “Of course you’ll cover the loss. But this is about more than that. Losing face in front of Bratva is unacceptable.”

  “Give them a discount. The quota is short, sell it to them under the agreed upon price.”

  Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Discount?”

  “It’s called capitalism, Yuri. Offer them five percent, they’ll demand fifteen, settle for ten.”

  “If I do that, I lose…” Yuri did a quick mental calculation. “Over two million dollars.”

  “I’ll cover it.”

  “You have that kind of money?”

  The Cowboy didn’t answer. Yuri tried to think it through. While that plan could work, Yuri was unsure if the Cowboy would actually be able to make good on her word.

  “For me to trust you,” Yuri said, “I need assurances.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “A show of… solidarity. To prove you are still loyal to me.”

  The Cowboy waited. After almost ten seconds, she asked, “What is it you want, Yuri?”

  “The Americans,” Yuri said. “Kill them both.”

  JACK

  I had the gas pedal pinned on the unwieldy, unfit-for-off-road Crimebago Deux, and behind me Heckle said, “On in three… two…”

  Harry spoke into the camera. “With my good friend, and sometime lover, C-Dawg, shot in the chest and nearly dead, we’re less than half a mile away from the land train where the Cowboy may be running a portable opium farm and the biggest slavery ring in modern US history. I’ve called the police and the FBI, but they’re hours away. But we won’t wait. There’s nothing that will delay me from saving my best friend, Herb Benedict.”

  There was nothing that would delay me, either. But I called it. I knew, from the very beginning, that Harry’s intent to involve the authorities was bullshit. I made a mental note to listen to myself more often.

  Except when it came to Phin. In that case, I needed to start doing the opposite of whatever my initial thought was. No more trying to protect him. No more telling him what to—

  “Holy shit,” I said, interrupting my own thought as I gazed into the distance, spotting an impossibly huge vehicle. “There’s the train.”

  THE COWBOY

  The Cowboy has Yuri’s money. It will mean a financial hit, but Usher House 2.0 will make up the loss within a year.

  As for killing the Americans, in particular the derringer man, that will be a shame. He would have been a fun playmate for the website grand opening.

  But business is business.

  “Of course,” the Cowboy says. “When?”

  Yuri, looking more unhinged than usual, smiles.

  “Do it now.”

  HERB

  I didn’t say thank you,” Tequila said.

  As expected, Herb was feeling nauseous. He’d eaten too much, and the shitty, cheap food was too rich. The pancakes felt alive in his gut.

  “For what?”

  “You could have left me there. You didn’t.”

  “We’re in this together, brother.”

  “I…” Herb could sense Tequila was struggling with something.

  “What?”

  “If the roles were reversed, I would have left you.”

  Herb shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

  “I really think I would.”

  “How about Mexico?” Herb asked. “You broke that kid’s leg. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

  “I broke that kid’s leg, to give me a chance to escape.”

  He didn’t like Tequila ragging on himself. Herb knew him. Knew him well. Knew he was a decent person.

  “I don’t believe you. You’re a good man, Tequila Abernathy. You wouldn’t leave me behind.”

  Tequila didn’t look convinced.

  Herb clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust me. You’re not the betraying type.”

  “Self-preservation isn’t betrayal.” He stared at Herb. Hard. “Promise me something. If you get another chance, to run, you’ll take it. Whether I come with or not.”

  “I can’t make that promise, brother.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  Herb shrugged. “As I said, call me stupid. But after all that’s happened to us, the biggest tragedy of all would be if we lost our humanity.”

  “I don’t think I ever had any humanity,” Tequila said.

  “I think, if given the chance, you might surprise yourself.”

  JACK

  Holy shit is right,” McGlade said, coming into the cockpit with me. He had that ridiculous camera rig strapped to his forehead. “That is one really big boy right there. Good thing it isn’t moving. I don’t know how we’d stop it.”

  “They’ll be armed,” Chandler, aka C-Dawg, said. She was wearing one of McGlade’s Rainmakers t-shirts. Apparently he had several. “You mentioned you have weapons.”

  “Does a fish piss in the water?” Harry grinned, wide as a zebra’s ass. “Hell yeah I have weapons.”

  YURI

  Da. Eto khorosho.

  The Cowboy seemed to be falling into line, Bratva should be pleased, and the launch can go as scheduled.

  Yuri relaxed, just a bit. After being so obsessed, for so long, things looked like they were finally going to—

  “Vehicle approaching,” Dmitri said over the intercom.

  Yuri frowned. “What kind of vehicle?”

  “It looks like…” the driver’s voice trailed off.

  “Like what, man?”

  “Like a… motor home.”

  What could it be? A tourist?

  Yuri couldn’t take that chance.

  “Get moving.” He looked at the Cowboy. “Do you know the M60E3 machine gun? Rambo used it in the American movie First Blood Part 2.”

  The Cowboy nodded. “I love the M60E3 machine gun.”

  JACK

  As we approached the land train, its size grew from impressive to ridiculous. The tires were as tall as the Crimebago Deux. It had a dozen, no, fourteen cars, each larger than a semi-truck trailer. The vehicle made me appreciate how large our country was, if it could traverse the land without being detected for this long.

  Our storm-the-castle plan, conducted in haste, seemed foolish. Chandler had a bag full of zip ties on her belt, and a Glock in each hand. She was going to tie up the guards that surrendered, and shoot the ones that didn’t, while Harry freed the slaves and I searched for Herb and Tequila.

  But I didn’t even know if we’d be able to get inside. This train looked big and strong enough to weather a siege from a small army.

  “How close are we, J-Dawg?”

  “A hundred meters out, and— oh, hell.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Big boy,” I said, “just started moving.”

  HERB

  We’re moving,” Herb said, stating the obvious.

  YURI

  Motor home closing in,” warned Dmitri.

  Yuri stared at the numerical combination on the weapons locker.

  He was coming up blank.

  How could he not remember it?

  It was the opium. The opium he’d been smoking lately, to calm himself, had clouded his memory.

  “Fifty meters and closing,” Dmitri announced.

  Three numbers. What were the three numbers?

  “Did you forget the damn combination?” the Cowboy asked.

  “Just give me a second.”

  “Time’s up.” The Cowboy drew her sidearm and pointed it at the lock.

  JACK

  McGlade!” I yelled, wrestling with the steering wheel, “this is the stupidest idea you’ve had in a long history of stupid ideas!”

  “Bullshit,” McGlade said, kneeling next to the open side door. “What’s the point of owning a rocket launcher if you can’t use it?”

  “Aim for the front car,” Chandler told him. “And you, creepy twin guy, if you stand behind it the blowback is going to burn your face off.”

  “We clear?” McGlade said. I watched him try to turn around to check, but he was too fat.

  “Clear,” Chandler said, kneeling with Rosalina. Waddlebutt was in Rosa’s mouth.

  “Firing in three… two… one!”

  There was a WHOOSH! and a wave of hot air, and I watched the rocket leave a smoke trail as it beelined for the lead car of the LeTourneau LCC-1 Sno-Train.

  I expected some kind of gigantic explosion, something with huge flames and a giant BOOM!, but instead there was a metal-on-metal clang, and a big whump of instant smoke as the car rocked up on two wheels, threatening to tip onto its side.

  But it didn’t. The gigantic wheels came back down, and the train continued moving forward.

  HERB

  Something just happened,” Herb said, stating the obvious.

  JACK

  Got another one?” I asked McGlade.

  Chandler said, “Give it a second.”

  Slowly, inexorably, the first car cut sideways, and the wheels stopped turning. But the second car kept pressing forward, and with the first car blocking its path, began to push it sideways.

  “Domino effect,” Chandler said.

  The second car veered left, nowhere to go, and the third began to lift off the ground. Then the fourth twisted the opposite way, making a zig-zag that had nowhere to go but up and over. I was witnessing the world’s slowest crash, one train car after another climbing over its predecessor.

  “Each car has its own drivetrain,” Chandler said. “It’s going to fold up like an accordion.”

  THE COWBOY

  The front engine blew!” Yuri wails.

  “We’re under attack, you idiot,” the Cowboy tells him.

  And she has a pretty good idea who it was.

  The Cowboy takes aim at the locker again, and the train begins to creak and shake, and then tilt as the front of the car lifts up.

  “No,” Yuri shakes his head. “No no no no no no.”

  The Cowboy shoots the locker, then pulls the handle.

  It wouldn’t open.

  “You fool!” Yuri shouts. “You fused the lock! I knew the goddamn combination!”

  The Cowboy hurries to her parked vehicle, but the train is already too lopsided to attempt getting in. Instead, she leaps out the side door, hitting the ground with ankles pressed tight together, doing several painful rolls until coming to a stop in the dirt.

  She still has her gun. Still has her hat.

  Getting her bearings, the Cowboy looks up and she sees a red motor home putting on the brakes.

  Jack Daniels is driving.

  Harry McGlade is standing at the open door.

  They are less than thirty meters away, and the Cowboy brings up her gun. Not to kill. At this distance, she can wound. Then deal with them later, in a more relaxed setting.