Chapter 8 - The Decoy
"Don't move, Vincent," the woman on the train said. Her voice was sharper, older.
I looked at the Isabella standing next to me. Her face was pale with absolute terror.
"Mom?" Isabella whispered.
Answer One, Open Two. The woman on the train wasn't Isabella's twin. It was her mother. The one Daniel had supposedly kidnapped to force Isabella to run with the baby.
"I'm sorry, Bella," her mother said, stepping down from the train. She didn't look like a hostage. She looked like she was in charge. "Daniel promised us ten million dollars from the trust fund if we delivered the boy. You were never supposed to fall in love with the kid."
Vincent stepped in front of me and Isabella, shielding the baby. "Daniel is dead. The deal is over."
The mother's eyes narrowed. "Then we'll take the baby to the remaining Moretti bosses and sell him ourselves." She looked at the armed men. "Kill Vincent. Kill the waitress. Grab my daughter."
The men raised their rifles.
"Wait!" I shouted, pulling my father's envelope from my pocket. "You want the trust fund? You can't access it without this!"
The men paused.
"My father's letter contains the encryption codes to Eleanor's offshore accounts," I lied, my mind racing. "Daniel didn't know them. Only my father did. Shoot us, and the money is locked forever."
Isabella's mother held up a hand, stopping the gunmen. "Bring me the letter."
I walked slowly forward. My heart pounded against my ribs. I knew I only had one chance. As I reached the woman, I held out the envelope.
She reached for it.
I didn't let go. Instead, I pulled her violently forward, using her body as a shield just as Vincent drew his weapon and fired over my shoulder.
Two of the gunmen dropped. The third panicked and fired wildly into the ceiling, shattering the station lights and plunging the platform into darkness.
"Run!" Vincent yelled.
I shoved the mother backward and sprinted toward the concrete pillars. Gunfire sparked against the stone. Isabella screamed, running blindly ahead of me with the baby.
We ducked behind a baggage cart. Vincent laid down covering fire, his face grim.
"We're pinned," Vincent grunted, reloading his last magazine.
"We need a distraction," I said.
I looked down the platform. Sitting on a maintenance cart was an acetylene torch and a stack of heavy oxygen tanks used for welding the tracks.
I looked at Vincent. "Can you hit that tank?"
Vincent followed my gaze. A dangerous smile touched his lips. "Cover your ears."
Vincent leaned out and fired three rapid shots.
The spark hit the pressurized valve.
A massive, deafening explosion ripped through the station. The shockwave blew out every remaining glass window on the platform, sending a cloud of thick, white steam and smoke billowing across the terminal.
In the chaos, Isabella's mother shrieked as the gunmen scattered.
"Now!" Vincent yelled.
We sprinted through the smoke, bypassed the gunmen, and boarded the private train car. Vincent slammed the heavy reinforced doors shut and threw the deadbolt.
He ran to the conductor's cabin and slammed his hand onto the throttle.
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The massive train lurched forward, slowly at first, then rapidly gaining speed as it pulled out of the dark station, leaving the burning platform behind.
We were out.
