He stood again, using his handhold on the ladder to leverage himself up. He couldn’t risk climbing yet. That would put him in view of Jaeger.

A shout sounded. He couldn’t make out any words, given the wind and the screeching of the wheels on the tracks, but it was likely the German, noticing the growing gap between the main train and the carriage with his sugar. Six feet now. More. When it was wide enough that a man wouldn’t be able to leap across the distance, the calculus on what he should do changed.

The range of a pistol was significantly longer than what a man could jump, and Drake was a sitting target here at the front of the train.

He drew his own sidearm from its holster and climbed. He’d only gone up three rungs when that voice rang out again. And this time he recognized the word.

“Elton!”

Blast. The German knew who he was, by name. Drake looked over his shoulder, just able to see Jaeger’s head and shoulders. Still clinging to the ladder with his left hand, he held out his right and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild, as Drake had intended, but it had the desired effect as Jaeger dropped to the deck.

It wouldn’t keep him down long, but he only needed a few moments. He climbed up the last few rungs, blindly fired another shot to keep his opposite number down, and scrambled onto the roof of the carriage.

He was only a second from safety, ready to swing down into the carriage, when fire pierced his abdomen. Like an echo of the pain, his ears registered the sound of a pistol. The angry Spanish shout. “I will find you! You will pay for this!”

Then he pitched into the black of the carriage. Partly on purpose, partly as the train jerked onto the switched track, partly because his legs gave out.

Barrels roughly caught his fall. He managed to roll off them onto a marginally more welcoming sack of something. But then he could only lie there and try to breathe. Try not to let the dizziness and agony steal his mind.

He wasn’t finished yet. He had to see this through. Had to . . . something. Open the door? No. Maybe.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his back, sought out the place screaming the loudest. Then moved his hand, wet and sticky now, to his abdomen. Another wet spot that would no doubt be red with his life.

Through and through—he’d thank the Lord for that when he had the power. If his organs were intact enough that he’d live to do it.

For now he . . . he must . . . he should . . .

He slid to the still-rocking floor. Puddled there, leaning against the sack, as the carriage slowed and stopped.