Chapter 7 - The Iron Tracks
The suppressed gunshot sounded like a dry branch snapping underfoot. The round tore through the fleshy meat of Falcon’s left shoulder, but the momentum of his two-hundred-pound frame crashed into Victor like a falling oak.
The gun clattered across the gravel as both men hit the track bed. Victor brought the silver-tipped cane up, trying to drive the blunt metal point into Falcon’s throat, but Falcon caught the cane with his bare hand, twisting it savagely until the elder man’s wrist fractured with a sickening crunch.
Rosie tumbled into the soft weeds beside the track, sitting upright, her eyes wide, tears finally streaming down her face, but she remembered her training: Never scream.
Falcon pinned Victor to the rusted ties with a knee on his sternum. He leaned down, his eyes hollow with lethal intent. "Tell Lucian that if he ever looks in this direction again, I won't just kill his men. I will come to his estate and tear his throat out on his own Persian rugs."
Victor, spitting blood, laughed wetly. "You're too late, Jax. The whole syndicate knows the girl is alive. The bounty is five million. You can't run forever with a baby on your back. Someone will sell you out. Beatrice... Terry... they’re already being rounded up."
Falcon’s heart clenched at the mention of Beatrice. He didn't waste another second. With a brutal strike of his palm to Victor’s temple, he knocked the man unconscious, grabbed the dropped pistol, and scooped Rosie back into his arms.
The cargo train was rumbling past, forty cars of iron ore grinding eastward toward the inland mountains. Falcon ran alongside the lumbering steel beasts, waiting for an open boxcar. His shoulder screamed with fire where the bullet had grazed the muscle, but he ignored the pain.
Spotting an open flatbed loaded with industrial lumber beneath heavy tarpaulins, Falcon launched himself upward. He hooked his forearm over the wooden railing, swinging Rosie gently onto the bed of seasoned cedar planks before hauling his own bruised body over the edge.
He pulled the heavy canvas tarp over them just as the train cleared the switchyard and picked up speed, plunging into the mountain tunnels.
Under the darkness of the canvas, the scent of fresh wood sawdust filled the air. Rosie was trembling violently. Falcon sat against a stack of timber, pulling the girl onto his lap and wrapping his good arm around her.
"Papa," she whimpered, her voice tiny and broken. "Are you hurt?"
Falcon wiped her tears with his thumb, forcing his breathing into a calm, steady rhythm. "Just a scratch, little bird. We're safe now. We’re going to the mountains."
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"Will we see Sister Beatrice?"
Falcon looked down at his blood-stained fingers in the dim sliver of light beneath the canvas edge. He remembered Victor’s words: They’re already being rounded up. He pulled Rosie tighter, realizing that to protect her, he was going to have to stop running and start hunting.
