Read Chapter 33: The Final Race

The service depot stank of diesel and cold metal. Mercer hit the ground running, Vernet stumbling at his side, her lab coat streaked with grime from the undercroft. He could feel the minutes burning — twenty-six left by his count, maybe less.

The Eurostar sat on the maintenance track like a sleeping snake, its sleek nose pointed toward the tunnel mouth. Emergency lights painted the platform in sodium orange. Two guards stood at the open service hatch near the engine compartment, rifles slung loose but ready.

"Stay behind me," Mercer muttered.

He didn't wait for an answer. He moved fast, low, the stolen SIG in his fist. The first guard turned at the scrape of his boots; Mercer caught him across the jaw with the pistol butt, felt bone give. The second swung his rifle up, but Mercer was already inside his guard, grabbing the barrel and shoving it wide. A knee to the groin, an elbow to the temple. Both men hit the concrete in under four seconds.

"Cover me," he said to Vernet. She nodded, picked up one of the rifles with trembling hands, and sighted down the platform.

He climbed through the service hatch into the engine bay. The compartment hummed with dormant machinery — conduit runs, hydraulic lines, the dull mass of the traction motors. And there, bolted to the air-handling manifold near the forward bulkhead, sat the dispersal unit: a compact cylinder wrapped in wiring, a solenoid valve jury-rigged into the cabin ventilation line. Above it, a small digital readout blinked in red: ARM - 00:24:37.

Twenty-four minutes. The train was still stationary, but Remi could trigger the valve remotely any time.

Mercer pulled the access panel open. Inside was a tangle of wires — black, red, blue, yellow — and a central controller chip no bigger than his thumbnail. Disarming it wasn't the problem. Bypassing the dead man's switch was. If he cut the wrong line, the valve would open and vent the toxin into the cabin immediately.

"Dr. Vernet," he called. "Get in here."

She scrambled through the hatch, rifle clattering against the frame. Her eyes went wide when she saw the device.

"Can you kill it?" Mercer asked.

She studied the wiring for three seconds — that was all she needed. "The release valve is here." She pointed to a solenoid at the base of the cylinder. "If we can physically seal it, the controller can't open it. But it's bolted in. I need a tool."

Mercer looked around. Tool locker, far wall. He crossed the bay, wrenched the locker open, and grabbed an adjustable spanner. As he turned back, he saw a shadow move across the platform beyond the open hatch — a tall figure in a dark suit, flanked by two more guards.

Sokolov. He'd found them.

"They're coming," Vernet said, her voice thin.

Mercer pressed the spanner into her hand. "Seal the valve. I'll hold them off."

He stepped into the open hatchway, raised the SIG, and fired two rounds over their heads. The guards scattered, Sokolov diving behind a maintenance trolley. Mercer ducked back inside as return fire chewed sparks off the steel frame.

"How long?" he shouted.

"Sixty seconds! Maybe less!"

He didn't have sixty seconds. He needed forty-five. He dropped to a knee, aimed past the hatch edge, and put a round through the trolley's wheel. The structure shifted, unbalancing Sokolov's cover. Mercer fired twice more, driving them back toward the far end of the platform.

Behind him, he heard the wrench bite metal — a sharp clang, then a click.

"Done!" Vernet called. "The solenoid is physically locked. The controller is blind."

Mercer risked a glance back. The cylinder's red readout had gone dark. For one glorious moment, he allowed himself a breath.

Then a different sound cut through the engine bay — a low, rising whistle from the train's forward electronics bay. The cabin lights inside the stationary carriages flickered. A klaxon began to pulse, two short blasts and a long one, over and over.

Vernet's face went white. "That's not the dispersal system."

"What is it?"

She dropped the spanner and rushed to a diagnostic panel on the bulkhead, her fingers flying across the keys. "The train's self-destruct. A secondary charge, wired into the undercarriage." She looked up at him, eyes hollow. "Remy must have rigged it to trigger if the primary unit lost signal. Now that we've disabled the dispersal —"

"The failsafe fires."

"Four minutes. The charges will detonate in four minutes."

From the platform, Sokolov's voice echoed, cold and controlled: "Mercer. I can see the countdown from here. You've killed us all."

Mercer grabbed Vernet's arm and hauled her after him, out of the engine bay and down the platform. Through the carriage windows, he could see figures stirring — gala guests still aboard, being held for Remi's arrival. Sleeping, some of them. Drugged, probably.

"Right." He keyed his stolen radio to the channel Camille used, thumbing the talk button. "Camille, where are you?"

Static.

More static.

Then her voice, tight with pain but sharp with purpose: "North side of the depot. I took a hit from Sokolov's man, but I'm moving. What's happening?"

"The dispersal system is dead. But Remi rigged a self-destruct failsafe. Four minutes until this whole depot goes up."

A pause. He could hear her breathing hard, maybe running. "Four minutes isn't enough to evacuate everyone aboard."

"I know." Mercer scanned the platform. Emergency release handles at the carriage ends. Fire doors at the depot exits. Thirty seconds to crack each carriage, if he was fast. Camille could take the other end. He ran, Vernet keeping up as best she could.

He reached the first carriage door, yanked the emergency handle, and wrenched it open. Inside, passengers staggered to their feet, confused and blinking. "Out! Now! Move toward the depot exit!"

A river of evening gowns and dinner jackets began to pour onto the platform. Mercer counted as they passed — fifteen, twenty, twenty-five in this car alone. He ran to the next.

As he pulled the second door, his radio crackled again. Camille's voice, different now. Lighter. Almost afraid.

"Mercer. The north end of the depot — there's a second train. A service locomotive with a passenger tender."

"Can you move it?"

"Not the problem. The problem is who's on it." A breath. "Remi. He's got the engine running. And he's got the cufflink — and if he leaves now, the antidote formula leaves with him."