The cold bit at Jake’s bare skin, a brutal shock after the searing heat of his climax. He sagged against Liam, the rough wool of his jacket scratching Jake’s cheek, the smell of sweat and pine and something metallic filling his lungs. For a single, suspended moment, there was nothing but the heaving of their chests and the distant, hungry crackle of the fire. Then the shouts began, clear and sharp in the night air, cutting through the haze in his mind.

Reality slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. “Shit,” he breathed, the word a plume of white in the frigid air. He shoved himself away from Liam, stumbling back a step, his legs unsteady. He fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans, his fingers clumsy and slick with a mixture of his own spit and their shared sweat. The damp denim felt cold and abrasive against his still-sensitive cock as he hastily tucked himself away.

Liam turned slowly from the tree, his movements stiff. In the flickering, hellish light from the wreck, his face was a pale mask, his eyes wide and dark. The cocky, adrenaline-fueled arrogance was gone, replaced by a dawning horror that mirrored Jake’s own. He pulled up his jeans with a shaky hand, not bothering with the buttons, his gaze fixed on the glowing, mangled train cars.

“They’re alive,” Liam whispered, his voice hoarse. It wasn’t a statement of relief, but one of terror.

“Get your fucking pants done,” Jake hissed, grabbing Liam’s arm and pulling him deeper into the shadows. “We need to see what’s happening. We still need the box.”

The thought was insane, but it was the only thing keeping him moving. The plan. Stick to the plan. He’d spent months on the plan. He couldn’t let one moment of explosive, reckless stupidity derail it completely. He was already derailed. He pushed the thought down, burying it under a fresh layer of cold, hard pragmatism.

They moved like ghosts through the undergrowth, circling around the brightest part of the fire. The wreckage was worse up close. One of the freight cars had been thrown completely clear of the tracks, its steel skin torn open like a can, spilling its contents of grain across the forest floor. The security car—their target—was on its side, tilted at a precarious angle, its reinforced door hanging from a single, groaning hinge. The fire was coming from the engine itself, which lay half-submerged in the shallow creek bed, hissing and spitting steam into the night.

Two men in guard uniforms were stumbling near the engine, one of them clutching his arm, shouting names into the darkness. They were dazed, confused. Alive.

“There,” Jake whispered, pointing toward the tilted security car. “The strongbox. It has to be inside.”

Liam nodded, his jaw tight. They crept forward, using the deep shadows cast by the wreckage as cover. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning coal and hot metal. Every step on the gravel of the rail bed seemed deafeningly loud. As they reached the shadow of the overturned car, Jake put a hand on Liam’s chest, stopping him. He peered around the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs.

And then he saw him.

A third guard. He was lying half-in, half-out of the security car’s broken doorway, tangled in a mess of splintered wood and twisted steel from the car’s interior frame. He wasn’t moving. A heavy steel support beam, dislodged in the crash, lay across his chest, pinning him to the ground. His head was turned at an unnatural angle, his eyes open and staring blankly at the star-filled sky. A dark, sluggish pool of blood was spreading out from beneath him, soaking into the dusty ground. There was no question. He was dead.

Jake felt the air leave his lungs, a silent, sickening punch to the gut. This wasn't part of the plan. Roughing up a few guards, maybe a broken bone or two, that was factored in. Expected. But not this. Not death. Not the cold, still finality of it. This changed everything. Robbery was one thing. A hanging offense, sure, but one a man could run from. This was murder. It didn't matter that it was an accident, a freak consequence of the derailment. A man was dead because of them.

He pulled back, pressing himself against the cold steel of the car, his breath catching in his throat. Liam looked at him, his eyes questioning, and then peered around the edge himself. Jake watched the color drain from his face. Liam’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He staggered back, his hand flying up to cover his mouth as a choked, gagging sound escaped him. The stark, undeniable reality of the dead man seemed to shatter the last of his reckless bravado, leaving only raw, naked fear in its place.

Jake’s hand clamped down on Liam’s shoulder, a grip of pure, desperate force. “Get ahold of yourself,” he snarled, his voice a low, vicious rasp right by Liam’s ear. He gave him a rough shake, forcing Liam’s wild eyes to meet his. “Panicking won’t un-kill him. It won’t get us out of here. Do you understand me?”

Liam stared back, his face ashen in the firelight, his breath coming in short, hitching gasps. He nodded, a jerky, puppet-like motion. The cocky swagger he’d worn like a second skin was gone, stripped away to reveal something young and terrified underneath. Jake hated it. He hated it because it mirrored the cold dread coiling in his own belly.

“The box,” Jake repeated, the words tasting like ash. “We still need the money. More than ever now. We can’t run from this with empty pockets.”

The logic was twisted, insane, but it was the only thing he had. A dead man meant they had to run farther, hide deeper, buy silence and passage where none would be offered freely. That took money. More money than they had.

He released Liam and moved first, his body a tight knot of controlled urgency. He stepped over a splintered support beam and crouched by the dead guard. The metallic, coppery smell of blood was overwhelming, thick in the air. He forced himself not to look at the man’s face, at the vacant, staring eyes. He focused on the task. The guard’s belt held a ring of keys. Jake’s fingers, slick with a cold sweat, fumbled with the clasp. It wouldn't give. Cursing under his breath, he pulled his knife, the blade flashing in the firelight, and sawed through the thick leather of the belt. The keys came free with a soft jingle that sounded like a scream in the oppressive quiet.

“Get in there,” Jake ordered, shoving the keys at Liam. “Find the strongbox.”

Liam flinched as if the keys were hot iron but took them, his hand trembling so badly they rattled against each other. He hesitated, his gaze locked on the body pinned beneath the beam. He couldn't seem to make himself step over it.

“Now, Liam!” Jake hissed, giving him a hard shove that sent him stumbling into the tilted car.

Jake kept watch, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fire. The shouts of the other guards were closer now, more organized. They were calling out for “Henderson.” The name of the dead man. A fresh wave of nausea washed over Jake. He swallowed it down, the burn of bile in his throat a sharp reminder of the precipice they stood on.

A moment later, Liam’s panicked voice came from inside the wrecked car. “It’s pinned, Jake! The big one. The frame’s crushed it. We’ll never get it out.”

“Fuck.” The word was a prayer and a curse. All of it. Months of planning, the risk, the derailment, the death… for nothing.

“Is there anything else?” Jake called back, his voice tight. “Anything at all?”

There was a sound of frantic scrambling, of metal scraping against metal. “A lockbox!” Liam shouted. “A smaller one. And a mail sack… it feels heavy.”

“Bring it. Bring it all. And hurry!”

Liam emerged a few seconds later, clutching a small, dented metal box and a canvas mail sack that clinked with the sound of coin. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes still wide with horror. He moved with a jerky, panicked energy, scrambling out of the car and nearly tripping over the dead guard’s outstretched leg. He recoiled with a choked cry, stumbling back against the side of the train car.

Jake snatched the lockbox and the sack from him. The box was heavy enough, but it was a pittance. Maybe a few hundred dollars. The sack was mostly coin, barely worth the weight. This wasn’t the score that would set them up for life. This wasn’t even enough to get them across the state line without raising suspicion. This was pocket money. Blood money.

He shoved the sack into the leather satchel he wore slung across his chest. He didn't have time to work on the lockbox. He glanced back toward the engine. He could see the beams of two lanterns now, cutting through the trees, moving steadily toward them. They were out of time.

“Let’s go,” Jake said, grabbing Liam’s arm and pulling him away from the wreckage, back toward the deeper shadows where the horses were tethered. The plan was gone, the money was a joke, and the ghost of a man named Henderson was already tethered to their souls. All that was left was the running.

They crashed through the undergrowth, the small branches whipping at their faces and clothes. The horses were just ahead, tethered in a small, moon-dappled clearing, their dark shapes shifting nervously as they scented the smoke and fear on the wind. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence. Jake’s mind raced, calculating distances, angles, escape routes. The satchel containing their pathetic haul banged against his hip, a constant, mocking reminder of the price they’d just paid for a handful of coins.

“Keep up,” he snarled, yanking on Liam’s arm again as the younger man stumbled over an exposed root.

They were almost there. The horses huffed, their eyes wide and white in the gloom. Jake could almost feel the worn leather of the reins in his hand, taste the freedom of the open, dark country ahead.

“Hey! You two! Hold it right there!”

The voice cut through the night, sharp and authoritative. Jake froze, his entire body going rigid. He slowly turned his head. One of the guards stood silhouetted against the fire, not thirty yards away. He was holding a pistol, its long barrel glinting in the hellish light. The other guard was just behind him, his own weapon raised.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The world seemed to hold its breath. Then Jake shoved Liam hard toward the horses. “Get them loose! Go!”

The first shot cracked the night open. It wasn't aimed at them, but at the sky—a warning. The sound was deafening, a physical blow that made Liam cry out and clap his hands over his ears. The horses shrieked in terror, pulling hard against their tethers.

“I won’t say it again! On the ground, now!” the guard yelled.

Jake didn’t hesitate. He dropped into a crouch behind the trunk of a thick pine, pulling his own Colt from the holster at his hip. The metal was cold and solid in his sweaty palm, a familiar and grim comfort. “Liam, the horses!” he roared, his voice raw with adrenaline.

Another shot, and this one was no warning. A chip of bark exploded from the tree inches from Jake’s head, stinging his cheek with wooden shrapnel. He flinched but didn’t pull back. He raised his pistol, the front sight a dark notch against the distant firelight, and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t aim to hit the man, just the ground near his feet. The Colt bucked in his hand, the roar of it echoing his own fury. Dirt kicked up in a spray, and the guard scrambled back a step.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Liam was chanting, his hands fumbling uselessly with the knots on the reins. His fingers were slick with sweat, clumsy with panic.

“Untie them!” Jake bellowed, firing again. The muzzle flash was a blinding orange flower in the darkness, momentarily wiping out his night vision. The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils, acrid and sharp. The guards were firing back in earnest now, the air alive with the angry buzz of lead. A bullet whizzed past Jake’s ear with a sound like a tearing cloth. He kept his head down, the rough bark of the pine scraping his skin. He could hear Liam’s panicked gasps, the frantic stamping of the horses. They were dead if they stayed here. Dead or captured, which was the same thing.

He risked a glance. Liam had finally gotten one horse free and was now wrestling with the second. “Leave it! One is enough!” Jake shouted.

But Liam, in his terror, wasn’t listening. He gave a final, desperate yank and the second knot came loose. Just as he turned, a bullet tore through the fleshy part of his thigh. He screamed, a high, thin sound of pure agony, and collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg.

“Shit!” Jake spat. He laid down two more quick shots toward the guards, forcing them to take cover, then bolted from behind the tree. He grabbed the front of Liam’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. Liam cried out again, his leg buckling beneath him. Ignoring the dead weight, Jake half-dragged, half-threw him toward the nearest horse.

“Get on, goddammit, get on!” he grunted, shoving Liam’s foot into the stirrup and hoisting him up into the saddle.

A searing pain shot through Jake’s left shoulder. He grunted, a sharp exhalation of breath, and looked down to see a dark, wet stain spreading rapidly across his shirt. The impact felt like being kicked by a mule. He ignored it, the fire of adrenaline burning hotter than the pain. He slapped Liam’s horse hard on the rump. “Ride!”

The horse bolted, crashing into the darkness. Jake swung himself onto his own mount, his injured shoulder screaming in protest. He grabbed a fistful of mane, kicked his heels hard into the horse’s flanks, and plunged after Liam into the black, unforgiving woods. The shouts and the crackle of the fire faded behind them, replaced by the thunder of hooves, the rasp of their own desperate breathing, and the wind whistling past their ears.

The forest swallowed them whole. One moment they were silhouetted against the inferno of the wreck, the next they were plunged into a disorienting, absolute blackness, punctuated only by the desperate, ragged sounds of their own breathing and the frantic crashing of the horses through the undergrowth. Branches clawed at them like skeletal hands, tearing at their clothes and skin. The pain in Jake’s shoulder was a hot, insistent poker, but he gritted his teeth against it, his good hand fisted in the horse’s mane, urging it on with a low, guttural sound that was more animal than human.

Ahead of him, Liam swayed precariously in the saddle, a pale ghost in the gloom. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and the sight stopped the breath in his lungs. The fire from the train was a distant, malevolent orange eye staring back at them through the lattice of black trees. It looked like a wound in the world, a glimpse into hell itself. The shouts were gone, lost to the distance and the thunder of their own flight, but he could still hear them in his head. Henderson. The name echoed in the hollow space where his bravado used to be.

Fear, cold and sharp, sank its teeth into him. It was a different kind of fear from the thrill of the derailment, or the sharp excitement of the guards’ bullets. This was a deeper, more permanent dread. It was the certainty of a future destroyed. The memory of their frantic coupling against the tree—the heat of Jake’s mouth, the rough scrape of bark against his back, the explosive, mind-wiping release—now felt like a grotesque prelude. The same wild, reckless energy that had driven him to press his lips to Jake’s was the same energy that had led them here. It had tasted of freedom then. Now it tasted of ash and blood.

Every jarring stride of the horse sent a fresh wave of agony lancing up his thigh. The bullet had torn through muscle and sinew, and the wound throbbed with a vicious, sickening rhythm. He could feel the warm, sticky wetness of his own blood soaking through his jeans, gluing the rough denim to his skin. He bit down on his lip, tasting the salt of his own blood, trying to stifle the sob that was clawing its way up his throat.

He looked at Jake’s back. The man rode with a grim, unwavering focus, a dark silhouette against the slightly less dark sky. The left side of his shirt was black with blood, a stark patch that seemed to grow even as Liam watched. But Jake didn’t falter. He was a creature of pure, forward momentum, fleeing one fire and heading into another of his own making. The same hard, unyielding intensity that had pinned Liam against the tree just an hour ago was now their only hope of survival. The memory was so vivid he could almost feel the phantom pressure of Jake’s hips grinding against his own, the desperate, possessive grip of his hands. He could feel the slick heat of their shared climax cooling on his belly beneath his hastily buttoned jeans, a secret, shameful stain that connected him to this disaster in a way that felt more profound than the robbery itself.

“Jake,” he rasped, his voice thin and cracking.

Jake didn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the treacherous path ahead. “Save your breath,” he growled, his voice tight with pain. “We’re not clear yet.”

“My leg…”

“I know.” The words were clipped, devoid of sympathy. There was no room for it. “Keep your weight off it. Hold the saddle horn. We stop, we’re dead.”

The cold finality of the statement silenced Liam. He looked back one last time, but the fire was gone now, finally devoured by the trees and the distance. There was nothing behind them but darkness. And nothing ahead but more of the same. The man he’d followed into this, the man whose scent still clung to his skin, was a stranger forged in violence and desperation. The thrill was gone. The excitement had curdled into a thick, choking horror. All that was left was the pain, the cold, and the terrifying, endless dark. He turned his face forward, the wind stinging his eyes, and rode on.

Jake leads them away from the main roads, his knowledge of the unforgiving landscape their only advantage. The horses’ hooves are muffled by pine needles as he guides them into a dense tract of forest, the branches clawing at their faces and clothes. The moon is a sliver of bone, offering little light and no comfort. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit have faded, replaced by the whistle of the wind through the tall firs and the ragged sound of their own breathing. Liam’s horse stumbles, and he lets out a choked gasp, his hands white-knuckled on the reins.

"Easy," Jake murmurs, his voice a low rumble that barely carries over the wind. "Just a little further."

He finds what he’s looking for minutes later: a collapsed rock face that has created a shallow overhang, barely a cave, but sheltered from the wind and hidden from view by a thicket of gnarled junipers. It smells of damp earth and cold stone. He dismounts, his body aching with a weariness that goes bone-deep, and moves to help Liam, whose legs seem to have forgotten how to work.

Liam practically falls from the saddle into Jake's arms, shaking uncontrollably. The bravado he’d worn like a cheap suit back in town is gone, stripped away to leave only the shivering, terrified boy beneath. "God, Jake," he whispers, his breath hitching. "They'll hang us. That guard... I saw his face."

"Hush now," Jake says, his arms tightening around Liam’s trembling frame. He can feel the frantic beat of the younger man's heart against his own chest. He leads him under the overhang, sitting him down on a flat, dry patch of ground before tending to the horses, tethering them where they can graze on what little brush is available.

When he returns, Liam hasn't moved. He’s staring into the darkness, his eyes wide and vacant. Jake sits down beside him, the proximity a small shield against the encroaching cold. He doesn’t have a blanket, only the rough wool of his own coat, which he drapes over Liam’s shoulders. The gesture is practical, but it feels intensely intimate in the charged silence. Liam leans into him, resting his head against Jake’s shoulder, his shivers slowly subsiding into smaller tremors.

For a long time, they just sit there, listening to the night. Jake can feel the warmth of Liam’s breath through the fabric of his shirt, a stark contrast to the icy air. He smells of sweat, fear, and horse. It’s the smell of their failure, of the blood on the steel of the train tracks. Jake’s hand, calloused and rough, finds Liam’s. He gives it a squeeze, a silent promise of… something. Protection. Solidarity. He doesn’t know.

Liam turns his head, his face now buried in the crook of Jake’s neck. His lips, chapped and cold, brush against Jake's skin. It’s not a kiss, not yet, but it’s a question. Jake’s breath catches in his throat. Every instinct for self-preservation is screaming at him to pull away, to maintain the distance of a leader, but the profound loneliness of their flight, the image of that dead guard, and the desperate warmth of the man beside him conspire to shatter his resolve.

He turns his head, and their mouths meet. It’s a clumsy, desperate collision of lips and teeth. Liam makes a broken sound, a sob and a moan tangled together, and his hands fist in Jake’s shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, becoming wet and hungry. It tastes of whiskey-sour fear and a desperate, clawing need. This isn't about love or even lust; it's a frantic, primal urge to feel something other than terror, to affirm they are still alive when death feels so close behind them.

Jake’s hand slides from Liam’s, moving up to cup the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind his ear. He pushes Liam back gently against the rock wall, his body covering Liam’s, shielding him, possessing him. His own arousal is a hard, aching shock, a testament to the life still thrumming in his veins despite everything. He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against Liam’s, their breaths mingling in white puffs in the frigid air.

"Liam," he breathes, the name a prayer and a curse.

Liam’s answer is to arch his hips, a silent, desperate plea. His fear has been transmuted into a raw, frantic wanting. His hands fumble with the buttons on Jake’s trousers, his fingers clumsy with cold and haste. Jake helps him, his own hands shaking slightly as he unfastens Liam’s pants. The cold air hits their exposed skin, a sharp shock that only heightens the burning heat pooling in their groins. Their erections are stark and pale in the gloom, hard with a need born of pure adrenaline. Jake’s hand closes around Liam’s length, and Liam gasps, his head falling back against the stone. The friction of Jake’s rough palm is exquisite torture, and as Jake leans in to kiss him again, a deep, soul-stealing kiss, Liam knows that for tonight, at least, this is the only salvation he’s going to find.