Lou shifted into a crouch and inched across toward the other train. He would go for the roof of car number eighteen, to avoid alerting any guards who might be in fifty-eight. Time had run out for Cap and George. The fear that was choking his confidence gave way as he readied himself to make the leap. Even though the black phantom was moving slowly, the ground between the two trains was a blur.

One … two … three!

With all the force he had, Lou launched himself across the gap between trains. He traveled much less distance than he had expected or intended, and landed hard on the roof of number eighteen. However, he hadn’t appreciated a slight slope to both sides from the center of the car, and without traction he immediately began to slip backwards.

Unable to arrest his slide, Lou went over the roof feetfirst. At the last possible instant, he caught hold of a rib running along the roof edge, and his arms held. Uttering a soft thanks to Cap for the upper body training, he hoisted himself back onto the car in an awkward chin-up—the second time in eight hours or so his arms had been tested like that.

Eight-oh-seven.

Please, don’t let me be too late.

With his body as flat as he could manage, Lou crawled marine-style along the length of car eighteen. Up in a crouch again, he was about to dive above the platform joining it to car fifty-eight, when the train lurched forward to receive another load of Frankencorn. Lou was thrown hard onto his back. Air burst from his lungs, and his head snapped backwards against the unyielding metal.

No time.

Dazed, he again scrambled into a crouch and leapt headfirst from eighteen to fifty-eight. His belly-flop landing was surprisingly easy and silent.

Maybe another prayer is in order, he thought.

If he was right—and he simply had to be—Cap and George were just below him.

The train stopped moving. Glancing ahead, Lou heard the rumble and saw a rush of yellow corn seed as one of the silos emptied some of its load about four cars ahead.

At the center of the roof of car fifty-eight was a closed hatch. The door’s rusted hinges creaked slightly as Lou lifted it open, but the sound of the corn rushing down the loading chute appeared to mask it. Flattened against the metal, he peered into the gloom below. The sliding door on the left side was open, bathing the inside in a dim light from the spots on the silo. He could make out a lone guard—jacket off, gun in his shoulder holster, unaware of the changes above him.