Dobson relieved the dead gunslinger of his blitzer rifle along with any remaining ammunition. She considered taking the rocket launcher as well, but common sense insisted that lugging the blasted thing with them would cause more problems than it had the potential to solve. Reluctantly, she stashed the launcher under the train instead, vowing to reclaim it upon their return.

  That felt too hopeful. Dobson paused, amending her plan to, if they returned. If.

  Better.

  With her supply of ammunition and borg juice topped off, Dobson no longer had an excuse to keep stalling the inevitable any longer. She hauled her titanium carcass up the iron ladder and onto the back of the railed shoving platform and cautiously approached the door. To her surprise, it was unlocked and slid open without protest. Dobson leapt out of the way and braced her body flat against the exterior wall, awaiting the anticipated barrage of gunfire. A quick glance back at Misty confirmed that she had done the same.

  They stood that way for some time, awkwardly awaiting a battle that never came. The seconds slowly ticked past, and still, nothing. No shouts. No shots. No sound whatsoever emitted from within the rear train car.

  Dobson and Misty exchanged skeptical glances before the latter mustered the courage to poke her head through the open doorway.

  “No signs of life,” Misty reported. Cautiously, she pushed off from the wall and tiptoed inside.

  Dobson waited a few breaths more, and still, the inside of the train car remained silent, free from the deafening roar of gunfire.

  Odd, she thought. Surely she and Misty hadn’t gunned down the entire gang. How many had they killed so far?

  Silently, Dobson tallied the numbers in her head. There had been three at the crash site and another three here, outside of the company train, totaling six. That did not include the goons taken out at the saloon, of course. Unfortunately for Dobson, she hadn’t thought to count the bodies. Had it been five? Six, perhaps? Twelve? It certainly felt like more.

  “Dobsy,” Misty’s hushed voice carried from within. “Are you coming or not?”

  Dobson gave up counting the dead. Not like it mattered, anyway. The number of dearly departed gunslingers was irrelevant. All that mattered was how many were left, and Dobson had no doubt that it would be enough to put her and Misty in the ground. She had already come to terms with the fact that she was destined to die by Stillwater’s hand. Better it happened while trying to commandeer one of the company’s trains than in their prison.

  She heaved a sigh before moving to stand in the doorway. A pin-sized light blinked above the automatic slider, urging Dobson to move from the track. She placed her hand over the motion sensor and forced it to remain open instead. “Give me something to block this doorway with,” she said to Misty.

  If she was going to be caught like a rat in a trap, she was at least going to be clever about it. No sense in making the enemy’s job easy for them.

  Two strips of sunken lights lit the train car from above, casting the interior in a warm, homey glow. Still blocking the doorway, Dobson’s gaze swept from wall to wall, noting the surveillance boxes mounted in the corners. If there was anyone left, they were probably burrowed deep inside the train, locked in the control room, watching them from afar.

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  “Here, pumpkin.” Misty pushed a rollaway drink cart to the exit. “No clam juice to be found, sadly.”

  Dobson wrangled the metal cart onto the track. As soon as she stepped away, the automatic door slid shut with a soft hiss and pinned the cart against the doorframe, unable to fully close. Satisfied with her handiwork, Dobson ventured deeper inside.

  “Would you get a look at his place?” Misty whistled low, nudging her partner in the ribs with the tip of her elbow. “Classy with a capital C, eh?”

  She wasn’t wrong. It was the sort of overindulgent opulence Dobson had seen time and time again when working amongst the upper echelons of criminal society.

  The walls were framed in polished mahogany and chrome. Rectangular windows stretched along the top of the train car, allowing distorted glimpses of the dark sky. The remainder of the walls were coated in red and gold silk wallpaper, matching the pattern of the plush carpet beneath their feet. Instead of rickety metal benches packed tightly together like sardines, the seating consisted of large tufted couches, made of leather and polished wood. Tables littered the ample space between couches, some still boasting drained whiskey glasses and half-finished card games. The air smelled of cigars and sweat.

  Misty glanced down at her bloodstained prison uniform and stolen duster and frowned. “Do you feel suddenly underdressed, or is it just me?”

  A voice crackled over the intercom, preventing Dobson from answering. “I see you’ve finished shooting up my men.” There was a long, exasperated sigh, followed by, “Had you just walked up and knocked like civilized people, you would have been invited inside.”

  Misty glanced around the train car, seemingly convinced the speaker was addressing someone else. When her search came up empty, she raised her remaining hand and pointed at her and then at Dobson, as if to say, ‘Us?’

  “Yes. You two,” the man’s voice snapped. “I’ve been expecting you for some time now.”

  “Really? A couple of nobodies like us? How exciting.” Misty broke into a charming smile, suddenly remembering her manners. “And with whom, might I ask, do we have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “All will be revealed shortly. Please make your way to the head train car, if you would. We haven’t got all day.”

  The next doorway opened across from them with an electronic hiss, welcoming the pair deeper into the heart of the train. The way was unlit, consumed in darkness, save for the occasional blink of electronic light.

  Dobson and Misty exchanged skeptical glances once more.

  Misty tentatively lifted her hand in the air, as if she were a child in a classroom asking to be called upon. “On a scale of one to ten, how likely are we to die along the way?”

  “Very unlikely,” the voice replied, flat with irritation.

  Misty was still trying to settle on a number. “Is that a two or a three, then?”

  “Considering I could have filled the train car with nerve gas the moment you both walked in, it’s safe to assume the likelihood is zero. I have no intention of killing either of you.”

  Dobson glanced over her shoulder at the rear doorway, still stuck halfway open, allowing the stale desert air to waft inside. She wondered if the man’s irritation was partly because his nerve gas plan had been so easily thwarted by a mere drink cart.

  “And what,” Misty carried on. “We’re just supposed to trust you?”

  The voice crackled back over the intercom with a snarl. “Make no mistake, I could end both of you with a mere snap of my fingers.”

  Misty, in all of her impulsive glory, actively egged him on. “Prove it.”

  Another reluctant pause followed before the intercom clicked back on and the man admitted, sighing, “I would rather not. As it happens, you have something I want and vice versa.”

  The doorway leading deeper into the train was still open. A light flickered on up ahead, illuminating the inside of the next train car. Beyond that was another open door, leading to yet another empty train car. Their guide was lighting the way, urging them forward.

  “Well?” Misty looked up at Dobson expectantly. “Are we all in, or not?”

  “We’re dead either way. Might as well see what the man wants.”

  “That’s the spirit, Dobsy!” Misty said, assuming the lead with a confident stride. “Onward and forward, ‘til death do us part!”

  Dobson followed reluctantly. “Must you phrase it that way?”

  “This way, please.” The man’s voice crackled from the next train car ahead of them. “Also, if you would, please refrain from shooting any more holes in things. You’ve already killed my best upholsterer.”