Squires peered through the last, thin puffs of tear gas out as they floated to the ceiling and then wound out the window and door. His eyes and mouth protected by gear that already seemed a part of him, his ears alert for danger, he ran to the cases stacked or strewn haphazardly in the rear of the car. He used his lapel knife to pry up the edge of one of the wooden crates.

It was money. Lots of it, the profits of suffering earmarked to cause more suffering.

Instead, he thought, looking at his watch, in thirty-two minutes it will be confetti. He and his mini-team would ride the rails another twenty minutes to where the Russians wouldn't be able to reach the train. Then they would hike toward the bridge as behind them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cars of this rotten bank would blow cloud-high. He experienced the flush of righteousness that Americans from Thomas Jefferson to Rosa Parks must have felt, the satisfaction and pride of saying no to something wrong, to someone corrupt.

Squires started toward the rear door of the train. As he was about to enter the second car to check on Newmeyer, his head was wrenched around by the sound of gunfire.

From the engine? he thought. How can that be? Grey wouldn't be shooting at anyone now that they were under way.

Calling for Newmeyer, Squires ran toward the front of the car, stepped into the black clouds that fierce winds were pounding down from the smokestack, and felt his way cautiously around the coal tender.

There had only been time for a brief burst, but Nikita knew he'd tagged the American. He'd seen the way his shoulder had jerked back, saw the dark splash of blood on the camouflage whites.

Nikita moved rapidly along the side of the locomotive. It seemed cut off from the rest of the train, which was hidden behind clouds of coal smoke and glittering particles of windblown snow. Upon reaching the cab, he lowered his gun and edged along the injector pipe toward the window.

He looked in.

The cab was empty. His eyes darted from corner to corner, which were ht by the dull orange coal fire- He looked up as a dark forehead and then the barrel of a Beretta poked down from the roof of the cab. Nikita dove through the window, catching a bullet in the back of his right thigh as the American sprayed the side of the train with gunfire.

Grimacing, Nikita squeezed his leg with his left hand as blood dampened the back of his trousers. The wound ached as though his thigh were in a tight vise, but what bothered Nikita more was that he hadn't anticipated the American going out the window and over the top of the cab.

The question was. what would he do now?