Jenn Bennett - Grim Shadows

“You didn’t come all the way out here just to meet me, I hope.”

She shook her head. “I was giving a seminar on Middle Kingdom animal mummification at the University of Utah.”

Fitting for a woman who specialized in funerary archaeology, he supposed. If he wasn’t so goddamn tired, he might’ve been interested in hearing her theories, but his travel-weary gaze was wandering to her breasts. Nothing much to speak of, but that didn’t stop him from looking.

“I’m on my way back to San Francisco,” she said, diverting his attention back to her eyes. “But when my father found out you’d be coming in on this train, he thought it might be wise for me to book a ticket so I could speak at the university before you arrived. We aren’t the only ones interested in your discovery. I’m not sure if you know what you’re getting into by bringing the djed amulet here.”

Oh, he knew, all right. He barely got the damned thing out of Egypt. While his uncle had battled the Egyptian Ministry of State, Lowe had defended their dig site from looters. He’d been shot at, stoned, stabbed—twice—and had won a fair number of fistfights.

Once he’d made it back to the States, he thought he’d be done with all that, but now he worried his troubles were only getting started. He’d briefly considered the possibility that the hired thugs on the train tonight might be after him because of his debt to Monk Morales, but if Monk wanted to kill him, he’d wait until Lowe got home. No, these thugs were definitely after the djed.

“I’ve already received offers from a few collectors.”

Her smile was tight. “My father is prepared to give you the best price. That’s why I’m to speak with you now. I’d like to inspect the amulet. If it’s truly the mythical Backbone of Osiris—”

“Christ, keep your voice down, would you?” Lowe quickly surveyed the lobby again. “I’m trying not to advertise, if you don’t mind. Besides, all the artifacts from the excavation were shipped on another boat. They’ll arrive next month. So I don’t have it on me.”

A hurried porter walked past them, wheeling a luggage cart. She kept quiet until the man was out of earshot. “You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

Her gaze dropped to his leather satchel. “From the way you’re gripping that bag, I’d say it’s inside. But whether it’s there or in your jacket pocket, I can feel it.”

The bizarre accusation hung between them for a long moment. If he hadn’t “felt” the cursed object himself, he might’ve laughed in her face. But truth be told, the amulet emitted some sort of unexplainable current. His uncle hadn’t felt it, but some of their hired Egyptian workers did. A fair number of them deserted their camp the night he’d brought it up from the half-flooded sinkhole. The artifact scared the hell out of him, frankly. And considering the way she was looking at him, all matter-of-factly and unblinking, well, that scared him a little, too.

“Mr. Magnusson,” she said in a lower voice as her eyes darted toward something behind his right shoulder. “Are you traveling with bodyguards?”

He stilled. “No.”

“Don’t turn around,” she warned.

“Are there two of them? Black coats. Built like brick shithouses, pardon my French.”

“No need to apologize. I prefer frank language. And if you are trying to ask if they are large men, then yes. They’ve been watching you for several minutes. One has slipped through a corridor behind the ticket windows and the other is approaching us.”

A clammy panic slipped across Lowe’s skin. His hand went to the Arabian curved dagger strapped to his belt and hidden under his coat over his left hip: a janbiya. In Egypt, he’d become accustomed to using it for protection. But after he’d left, he’d continued to wear it for peace of mind, more or less. Just in case.

Looked like he might be needing it now.

“Don’t stare at the man approaching us,” he instructed her. “Just pick up your luggage and follow me out to the platform. Quickly, but stay calm.”

She didn’t panic or question him. And thanks to those long legs of hers, their strides fell into a smart, matching rhythm. He caught the crisp scent of lilies drifting from her clothes as they strode past the newsstand, where neat rows of Good Housekeeping and Collier’s Weekly blurred in his peripheral vision.

“Listen to me,” he said as he placed an open palm at the small of her back. “Those men are armed with guns. They’ve been shadowing me on the train all day. I don’t know for certain, but I’ve got a funny feeling they’re after the amulet. It probably wasn’t wise of you to talk to me, because now they’ll think we’re friendly, and that makes you a target, too.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” she said calmly. Even in the panic of the moment, he had to admire her grit.

“You have a ticket for the 127?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead and board your train. Tell the porter suspicious men are following you.”

“A porter’s not going to shield me from gunfire.”

“Lock yourself in your stateroom.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Oh, she wouldn’t, would she? He prodded her onto the shadowed train platform, where other travelers were waiting for their departure time to come, saying their good-byes to family members and loved ones. The chilly night air didn’t stop a tickling bead of sweat from winding its way down his back.

“If they shoot you and take the amulet, I’ll have failed my father,” she said logically, as if she were making a decision about dinner plans. “So I’m sticking with you.”

“Fine, see if I care if you get yourself killed. You’re already dressed for an open-casket memorial service.”

“And you’re dressed like a Barbary Coast drunkard!”

“Is that so? Well, I’ll have you know, I’m—”

Startled cries bounced around the platform. Right in front of them, exiting a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, was the second thug—the one who’d disappeared behind the ticket windows. He barreled onto the platform with a polished revolver leveled at Lowe’s chest.

LOWE SHOVED MISS BACALL to the side. Her suitcase skittered across the platform as he reached inside his coat, drew the curved janbiya dagger, and swung it through the air. Not his best aim. But he felt fleshy resistance when it sliced through the thug’s shoulder.

At the exact moment the man pulled the trigger.

The rumble of two train engines absorbed the crack! of the gun. Where the shot landed, Lowe didn’t know—it just missed his ear, he knew that much. And he damn well wasn’t about to find out where the next might land.

The thug growled, gritting his teeth as he cradled his injured arm. The bright, coppery scent of blood wafted from Lowe’s blade. He readied himself to swing the dagger again, but thought better of it when he glimpsed Miss Bacall rising to her feet beside him. No, he decided, it really wasn’t a smart idea to engage in a knife fight in the middle of a train station. Especially when the curator connected to his big payout stood unprotected and the injured thug’s much bigger buddy was heading toward them with another gun.

Two guns, one knife . . . absolutely shit odds. No choice but to escape. So Lowe grabbed Miss Bacall around the waist and urged her into a run.

Screams from the lobby echoed off two idling locomotives. Fencing hemmed the station’s platform. Nowhere to run but into the arms of the train he’d just been so desperate to leave.

She tripped on the metal steps leading into the first open car. Like a domino, he stumbled behind and nearly crushed her, but managed to save them both from landing on their faces at the last moment. Also managed not to stab her with his bloody dagger. Barely.

Brilliant, Magnusson.

“My luggage!” she shouted as he scooped her up and pushed her inside, wiping the blade on his pants.

“Forget it. Go!”

He sheathed the dagger as they raced through the deserted dining car, darting past compact tables draped in white linen. Heavy footfalls thundered behind them. The bigger thug had followed and was taking aim. Lowe covered Miss Bacall’s body with his, bracing for the worst—

Goddammit, he really didn’t want to get shot.

But instead of another revolver blast, he heard something different: a broader, sharper explosion, and then a surprised shout as the train carriage shuddered. A backward look revealed the thug sprawled in the floor, covered in broken glass. The train windows at the front of the dining car had . . . shattered?

Four windows, all blown out, as if a bomb had gone off. Cold night air whistled as it whipped past the jagged teeth of the smashed glass.

How in the living hell was that possible?

Did he care? No, he damn well didn’t. Maybe his good luck was returning.

He thrust Miss Bacall farther down the aisle. Without a word, they dashed through the last quarter of the dining room and passed through the open door back onto the platform.

Just in time to see the injured thug warily inspecting the broken train windows as he clutched his wounded shoulder. He hadn’t noticed them yet. Small miracle.

“Go, go, go,” he said in Miss Bacall’s ear. He grabbed her hand and raced down the platform, away from the lobby, away from the guns. And they followed the length of the idling train until they came to the last car.

The second train, the one he wanted to be on, sat alongside the 127. A whistle blew. Steam puffed from the engine. It was leaving the station. And the stairway that crossed the tracks to the opposite platform might as well have been in another city.