He raced across the top of the container car, reached the end, and just as the agent glanced up from his perch at the foot of the ladder, Fisher unleashed a volley of 9mm NATO rounds directly into the bastard’s head, punching him back and sending him tumbling off the train.
“Sam, duck!” cried Briggs.
Fisher dropped to his haunches as more gunfire whirred over his head. Two cars up, another agent had mounted the ladder, placed his elbows on the top of the container, and begun trading fire with Briggs, whose submachine gun fire drove the man back behind the tank.
“Keep him busy,” cried Fisher, who crawled forward, slid under the upper deck railing, seized one of the grab irons, then allowed himself to slide down, off the right side of the container. He descended on two more grab irons until he was able to latch both hands onto the base of the upper deck railing. Now, with his legs dangling freely, he worked himself sideways across the deck, concealed from the agent’s view, while Briggs squeezed off another volley of suppressing fire, the MPX booming over the rattle and clack of the train.
Fisher continued slipping across the container until he reached the end and once more shifted down to the grab irons. He lowered himself between the cars, crossing over the coupler receiver hitch and reaching the next ladder.
Three more rounds cracked overhead, these from the agent, and Briggs answered with another triplet of fire.
“Almost there,” Fisher told Briggs.
“Roger, let me know.”
Fisher scaled the ladder and once more began skimming his way across the side of the container—
But without warning the train lurched forward, thundering at what must be full speed now, the diesel locomotive running at least sixty-five miles per hour. Fisher felt his grip falter and he tensed, fighting to pull himself higher and keep moving, each release of his gloved hands coming in smooth, practiced strokes. All those pull-ups and all that French Parkour training focusing on using momentum to breach obstacles always paid off.
“Sam, if you can still hear me, the train’s only about ten minutes away from Abqaiq,” Grim said. “We’re running out of time here!”
“Okay. We’re on the train. We’ll get it done.”
“You’re breaking up now. I didn’t get—”
Static broke over the subdermal as a gust wrapped around the tank, rattling the undercarriage.
When he was about two-thirds of the way down the container, he took a deep breath. “All right, Briggs. Hold fire.”
“Holding.”
Fisher reached up, slapped a gloved hand on the bottom rung of the upper deck’s railing, then, hanging by one hand, he drew his Five-seveN and swung up a leg, latching it around a support post. As he forced himself back onto the upper deck, sliding on his belly, he brought up his pistol and watched as the agent chanced another look.
Bang. Fisher shot him in the eye. “Briggs, move up!”
The wind was so fierce now, the sand battering them so violently, that Briggs could only stagger his way across the deck, keeping both hands latched onto the railing.
“We’re too slow!” Fisher shouted.
“I know! I know!”
Four MOIS agents and one rogue GRU agent. That was Fisher’s initial threat assessment. Two down. There should only be three remaining, but there was no telling yet if the MOIS agents had brought in more recruits.
That was until the next three began firing at them, even as they descended the next ladder to continue moving up the train.
“That’s not the rest of them,” Briggs shouted.
“No, we’ve got more than we thought.”
“Shit. Let me get an active sonar reading. Okay, there it is. Picked up those three, maybe a few more near the front, but the signal’s weak, too much downtime between bursts.”
“We’re nine minutes from Abqaiq,” said Fisher.
“Then we get up there, and it’s guns blazing! We got no choice,” Briggs said.
“There’s another railing that runs low along the wheels,” said Fisher. “I think I can make better time using that one. Same deal. You cover, I move up.”
“All right, but my way’s faster.”
“I agree. Your way will get us killed faster.”
Briggs frowned.
“Let’s do it.” Fisher slid around the side of the container and stepped onto the lower railing, merely a thin bar and protective skirt for the wheels. The grab irons were too high to reach, and there was no way he could balance himself on that rail without hand supports and with the train dieseling hard at sixty-five miles an hour, so he clutched the rail, then allowed himself to fall forward, swinging beneath it, ankles latched, and he began a swift, hand-over-hand approach, with the cacophony of the wheels at his side until he reached the midsection, the wind passing under the container and coming in short bursts, the sand hissing and getting into his mouth, ears, and nose. Ignoring the blood rushing into his head and the fire in his pectoral muscles, he grimaced and slid even faster.
Briggs’s machine gun cracked another announcement, but then footfalls thundered across the top of the container, followed by another exchange of gunfire—
And suddenly, one, two, three agents were dropping away from the train, smashing into the dirt, wiping out below Fisher, and flailing into the darkness.
“Three down. Let’s keep moving,” said Briggs through the subdermal.
“I told you, same plan,” Fisher snapped.
“I know. I accidently killed them as I was trying to distract them.”
“Yeah, right, hang on, I’m coming.” Fisher reached the end of the container, then swung himself up between the cars as Briggs descended the ladder to join him.
“It’s a long way to the front,” said Briggs. “But we’re clear for at least another five cars. Visibility is shit. Come on, come on.”
Fisher hauled himself up the next ladder and clutched the railing with both hands. His boots actually lifted from the tank several times, and it felt as though a construction worker were holding a sandblaster to his cheeks. When he glanced to the right, he couldn’t see anything save for the swirling phosphorescent sand via his night vision, and he wouldn’t dare remove the goggles.
Briggs was right behind him, hunkered down, pistol in one hand, the other sliding across the railing.
The next gust slammed Fisher into the railing . . .
And when he looked back to check on Briggs, the man was gone.
35
SHOUTING his partner’s name was a reflex action. Fisher didn’t expect to find the man. He’d already assumed that Briggs had been swept off the train.
But then he was glad he’d called out—because a voice came from near his boots:
“Sam! Down here! Little help!”
Fisher lifted his chin to glance over the side of the oil tank.
There was Briggs, both hands locked onto a grab iron. He must’ve slid down the container and seized the iron as he smashed into it. Time to repay the earlier favor. Fisher got on his haunches and reached over, taking Briggs’s hand, then, raging aloud in exertion, he hauled his teammate back onto the deck.
Coughing and spitting out sand, Briggs nodded, and they got back up and forged on, the train moving relentlessly through the storm now, the containers—despite being weighed down with oil—beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart.
They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs bounded forward, made his jump, and landed behind Fisher. They both crouched down to spy the end of the tank. No response from anyone ahead. Now they would make some time.
Yet before they reached the end of the tank, something very odd happened, something that had them standing more upright and glancing around, their gazes lifting to the skies . . .
The din of howling winds and hissing sand faded, as though they were passing through some strange boulevard deep in the heart of purgatory, soft whispers coming on the air, the sand falling in light flurries like snow, the clinking of the train more distinct.