The Man Who Loved Cole Flores (Dig Two Graves 1)

He became one with his mount, their hearts beating in unison by the time they neared the shivering tracks. Nugget let out a frightened whinny, but Ned was merciless and urged him forward, eyes trained on the narrow entryway into the cab, which passed them right before Ned got close enough to make his move.

Each time Nugget’s hoofs hit the ground, Ned sensed the impact in his thighs and arms. They breathed as one, and when Ned stood in the stirrups, he knew his mount would not shake him off. His head was fogged up when he made his jump, deaf to instincts that told him it was suicide.

Suspended in air, he saw his life pass before his eyes. All the good times—teaching Rory to ride a horse, the last Christmas with his parents—but also the very reason why he was ready to risk it all. Father’s body, drained of blood and butchered into all the proper cuts. Mother in a coffin. The life they wanted ruined.

The roar of the engine swallowed the cry Ned uttered, clutching to the edge of the coal car. Sweat dampened his shirt within a split second when both his feet slipped against the side of the wagon, but he eventually found something large enough to support his toes and offer him a chance to roll onto the mound of black rocks.

Breathless, he looked over his shoulder to see that Nugget had gotten away from the steel wheels, but there was no time to waste and he dove forward, deafened by the clamor of steel, jumping past the edge of the cart and into the cab.

Two men in coal-stained overalls spun around to face him, but Ned didn’t hesitate, drunk on the illicit excitement of danger and chase, and cocked his revolver, pointing it at the older of the two, index finger resting on the trigger.

Heat rushed to his head at the sight of fear reflecting in both their eyes, but the bandana covering his face transformed him into someone else. As if it wasn’t he who barked orders at the innocent railway workers. The sense of power was like the rush of alcohol, only instead of weakening his movement and senses, it made him steadier on his feet. The gunpowder-filled piece of nickel in his right hand couldn’t have turned him into a different man overnight, but it did change how others saw him. Such a powerful thing. Was this how Butcher Tom felt when he’d entered his parents’ home, knowing he could make them do whatever he wanted?

Shame and regret crept up his back and tightened around his neck like a noose, because he wasn’t that kind of man. Couldn’t be that kind of man. Yet here he was, sacrificing innocents on the altar of his revenge. There was no way back from here.

“Brakes. Now, or I’ll cool that engine with chunks of your brains!”

The young fireman, whose features were difficult to distinguish due to the soot stains on his cheeks and forehead, hesitated. But the engineer wasn’t ready to die for the principle of protecting the train, and grabbed the long lever, pulling it toward him with his whole weight. Ned had the good sense to grab a steel handle, because the sudden change in pace felt as if they’d hit a wall, and the fireman got thrown off his feet, yelping when his head collided with the metal wall. The wheels gave a shocked cry, but before Ned could have regretted his choices, the train came to a halt, and he realized that the heat in his face wasn’t due to regret or shame but the coals burning a few feet away.

A scream from somewhere in the carriages behind him forced bile up his throat, because it could only mean the Gotham Boys had boarded. The men in front of him exchanged hurried glances, but neither of them moved. Sheer luck it was, because for all his bravado, Ned wasn’t sure whether he’d have pulled the trigger, even in self-defence.

“You just take whatever you want. Please. We’ve got families,” said the fireman in a trembling voice, and Ned hated that a part of him liked that for once he was the one with all the aces, not the orphan in need of taking care of.

He steadied his voice and spoke. “You’ll get to walk out of here alive if you behave,” he said, but when the muzzle of a rifle dove through the doorway, his finger twitched against the trigger, barely missing the point where the revolver would send a bullet into the engineer’s chest.

Panic ran deep in his flesh when a red bag with holes cut out for eyes showed up in the entryway next, but once the man pulled himself up, Ned recognized Scotch by his unsteady gait and the dark blue coat he’d worn for the job. The front of the makeshift mask kept sinking and ballooning against his mouth, and the sound of his panting filled the cab, which remained quiet as a coffin otherwise.