Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) Read Free

darting past compact tables draped in white linen. Heavy footfalls thundered behind them. The bigger thug had followed and was taking aim. Lowe covered Miss Bacall’s body with his, bracing for the worst—
    Goddammit, he really didn’t want to get shot.
    But instead of another revolver blast, he heard something different: a broader,
sharper
explosion, and then a surprised shout as the train carriage shuddered. A backward look revealed the thug sprawled in the floor, covered in broken glass. The train windows at the front of the dining car had . . . shattered?
    Four windows, all blown out, as if a bomb had gone off. Cold night air whistled as it whipped past the jagged teeth of the smashed glass.
    How in the living hell was that possible?
    Did he care? No, he damn well didn’t. Maybe his good luck was returning.
    He thrust Miss Bacall farther down the aisle. Without a word, they dashed through the last quarter of the dining room and passed through the open door back onto the platform.
    Just in time to see the injured thug warily inspecting the broken train windows as he clutched his wounded shoulder. He hadn’t noticed them yet. Small miracle.
    “Go, go, go,” he said in Miss Bacall’s ear. He grabbed her hand and raced down the platform, away from the lobby, away from the guns. And they followed the length of the idling train until they came to the last car.
    The second train, the one he wanted to be on, sat alongside the 127. A whistle blew. Steam puffed from the engine. It was leaving the station. And the stairway that crossed the tracks to the opposite platform might as well have been in another city.
    “Down!” he told Miss Bacall. She didn’t seem to understand his plan, and he didn’t have time to explain, so he jumped off the platform onto gravel-packed steel rails before helping her down into the darkness.
    “Come on!” he yelled, pulling Miss Bacall alongside him to race behind the departing train as it chugged away from the station. They’d catch up easy as pie if they didn’t hesitate. Thank God for her long legs; she’d make an excellent Olympic sprinter.
    “Are you insane?” she shouted as they raced together.
    A legitimate question, but he didn’t answer. Nor did he consider leaving Miss Bacall behind. If the thugs were willing to shoot at him while she was standing at his side, God only knew what they’d do if he left her at the station, especially if they found out how rich her father was.
    A small, railed platform cradled the back of the train, lit from above by a single light. A moving target, but a steady one. Like catching a cable car. Sort of.
    Good sense be damned. He pumped his legs, grabbed the railing, and yelled, “Jump!”
    Their combined landing wasn’t as smooth as it could’ve been. His balance faltered. He heard a ripping sound, and for a moment he felt her falling. An image of her body being dragged behind the car flashed in his mind, but a quick shift in his weight brought her into his arms. And after some awkward flailing with her carried coat—how on earth had she managed to hang on to that thing?—they stood on the back platform, chests heaving with labored breaths.
    They’d done it! He couldn’t stop himself from hoo-ha-ing a little shout of triumph into the wind as they passed the engine of the idle 127. He caught a glimpse of a panicked crowd under the golden lights of the platform before their train chugged away into darkness.
    He grinned down at Miss Bacall, thoroughly pleased with himself. Almost too pleased. The excited blood surging through his energized body was headed south, making him half-hard with the thrill of victory.
    I am man! Hear me roar!
    God, he almost wanted to kiss her. Probably all the surging blood between his legs was to blame, but still. A little kiss might make—
    “What now?” she said, and not very happily.
    His chaotic victory plans fizzled. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
    Unaware of the inane thoughts running rampant in