“You want us to slaughter a bunch of women and children?” Misty threw her head back and drained the rest of her clam juice. With nowhere to set her glass, she made do with the floor and placed it on the padded carpet near her feet.

  Insult flooded Bradley’s grim expression. He bit back his displeasure and snapped his fingers at Abner, gesturing for him to correct the matter. Abner leapt into action. Mumbling his apologies, the small man scurried over and collected Misty’s empty glass before it left a wet ring on the carpet.

  “Now see here, Mister Lynch,” Misty continued, unbothered by whatever social faux pas she’d unknowingly committed. “I’m not opposed to murder, but this all seems a bit of an overreaction on the company’s part, no? All of this fuss over an unpaid lease?”

  “Abner.” Bradley extended his own empty glass for the passing conductor to take. He gestured over his shoulder to what might have been the door to a private water closet. “Take these to the sink area and give them a good scrub. Mind the fingermarks. I want the crystal to sparkle when you’re finished.”

  Dobson caught the look that passed between them. It was an unspoken command from Bradley to Abner that said, ‘And lock the door behind you’.

  “Yes, sir.” Abner took both glasses and disappeared into the small room. The automatic door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.

  Dobson held her head to the side and listened for the telltale sound of a mechanical locking mechanism.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Dobson?” Bradley interrupted.

  “Do I have a problem?” Dobson repeated, matching Bradley’s calm, detached energy. “Do you mean other than you asking Misty and me to murder a town full of innocents?”

  Bradley scoffed. “Since when has that ever been a problem for you? I have your records all here, Miss Dobson. Both official and unofficial.” Bradley’s gloved fingers swept back over the side table and tapped the dark data screen. The device blinked on, activated by his touch. He ignored it, certain he’d made his point. “As far as atrocities go, you’ve committed far worse.”

  “True,” Dobson conceded. “Truth be told, I do have several concerns, Mister Lynch. Why you just sent your man away, for instance. Behind the safety of a reinforced metal door, of all things. Which then leads to my main concern, which is that peculiar box you have tucked under your chair.”

  Dobson had noticed it the moment she and Misty had first set foot inside Bradley’s private train car. Despite the man’s obvious attempt to keep it hidden, the mysterious box called to her like a siren’s song, igniting a deep sense of morbid curiosity. Whatever the device was, Dobson knew it wasn’t anything good.

  An ugly smile split across Bradley’s noseless face. Unlike the others, this expression was genuine. His dark eyes sparkled as he pulled the strange contraption out from under his chair and placed it onto his lap. It was strangely utilitarian compared to the rest of the room. The black box was square, no larger than a lunch pail, and sported several tuning knobs and levers in lieu of a touch screen.

  Bradley casually rested his hand on the device. “Oh, this old thing?”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Looks to be a scrambler.” Dobson glanced warily at her partner for confirmation. “What do you think, Misty?”

  “Most definitely.” Misty nodded. “Nasty stuff, those electromagnetic pulse machines. A good way to stop a couple of augmented ladies in their tracks, if you ask me. You weren’t planning to use it on us, Mister Lynch, were you?”

  Bradley’s cutting smile widened. “Of course not. It was simply a matter of insurance, is all. In our line of work, one can never be too careful, you know.”

  “So, what’s your game here?” Misty demanded. “Fire it off if we refuse? Except, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re augmented too, aren’t you, Mister Lynch? Wouldn’t setting that thing off scramble your internal circuitry as much as it would ours?” Misty added with a shrug, “I’ll be honest, I didn’t peg you for the suicide pact type.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, actually. You see, this isn’t just any ordinary machine. It’s a mind scrambler,” Bradley explained. “I had it designed specifically to target electromagnetic brain pulses. All I have to do is flip this switch here,” — his finger hovered over a lever — “and all the electronics in your head overheat, effectively boiling your brain until death.”

  Dobson finally understood why the idiot’s headpiece was the wrong fit. It wasn’t merely a hat, but a shield, built with a protective lining that blocked his internal hardware from the effects of the device. It sat low around his ears because the blasted thing probably weighed three times what it should have. Dobson sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “That certainly explains your bizarre choice in headwear.”

  “And here I thought maybe he just had poor taste in fashion.” Misty pouted, disappointed by the revelation.

  “And,” Bradley said with a lift of his finger, “I will add that this particular device is tethered to my pulse. So, just in case either of you gets the bright idea to pop me off during negotiations, the scrambler goes off regardless.”

  Misty’s pout soured. “You don’t play fair, Mister Lynch.”

  He held up his gloved hands innocently. “It’s simply a precaution, Miss McClain, I assure you. We’re all reasonable adults here. I’m certain we can reach an amenable arrangement without anyone’s head having to burst open like an overripe melon.”

  “Well, Dobsy, we’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we?” Misty sighed. She glanced longingly over her shoulder at the bar, probably regretting not asking for another clam juice while she had the chance. “Any idea how we get out of this one?”

  “I don’t think we are getting out of this one,” Dobson said. “Even if we did as he asked, I can’t imagine Stillwater agreeing to let us go. We’re too much of a liability.”

  “Oh, come now.” Bradley frowned. “Is that how little you trust me?”

  Dobson continued, “I don’t see it ending well for us, Misty. We kill a bunch of innocents and then what? Either Stillwater guns us down afterwards, or, worse, we’re sent to the mines and die of hard labor two weeks from now.”

  “I don’t particularly care for either of those options.”

  “Neither do I,” Dobson agreed. “Which is why, best case scenario, I think we’re better off dying here. Getting scrambled isn’t a pretty way to go, but at least it’s quick. No hard labor involved.”

  Bradley’s expression darkened, displeased perhaps that Dobson and Misty had seen right through his plan. His gloved fingers drummed against the device in his lap. “It didn’t have to be this way, you know. We could have worked something out.”

  Dobson shook her head in disagreement. “I don’t think we could have.”

  Bradley had the sullen expression of someone who’d lost a game of checkers and was mere moments away from knocking the board and pieces onto the floor. “That’s it then?”

  “I do have one last question,” Dobson admitted. She steepled her hands beneath her chin in thought. “What rhymes with orange?”

  Bradley’s eyebrows rose high on his face. “What?”

  “Wrong answer, boyo!” Misty sprang to her feet and charged, accidentally knocking her chair over in her haste. She flew across the room but only got halfway before Bradley stopped her with the flip of a switch.

  An electronic scream lit the air. It bore deep into Dobson’s brain, sinking into her flesh like molten hot teeth. She watched through clouded eyes as her partner collapsed onto the floor with a gargled scream. Misty clawed at her own face, convulsing.