Fugitives

The cold of the steel rail seeped through the thick canvas of his trousers, a chilling reminder of where he was and what he was about to do. Jake ran a gloved hand along the smooth, worn metal, the moonlight glinting off the track as it disappeared into the oppressive darkness of the pine forest. Silence. It was a heavy, loaded thing out here, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the trees and the frantic, jackhammer rhythm of his own heart against his ribs.

He knelt, his knees cracking in the cold, and ran his fingers over the wires one last time. They were thin and delicate, a spider's web of potential chaos spun around the solid, waxy blocks of dynamite he’d packed tightly against the trestle support. Everything had to be perfect. The charge, the placement, the timing. One mistake, one loose connection, and this whole thing would either go up in his face or fizzle into a pathetic, useless puff of smoke. He preferred the former; at least it would be quick. Failure was a slower, more agonizing death.

He traced the primary wire back to the detonator clutched in his other hand. The plunger felt slick and cold, heavy with consequence. His thumb brushed over it, a nervous tic he couldn’t seem to stop. He could almost feel the phantom jolt of the explosion in his bones, the splintering of wood and the shriek of tortured metal.

And for what? The thought was a traitor, slithering into his mind when he needed focus most. He pushed it away and replaced it with the image of the money. Fifty thousand dollars. He pictured it in stacks, crisp and green, smelling of ink and promise. Enough to disappear. Enough to buy a new life, a new name, a small piece of land somewhere the sun actually shone and the past couldn't find him.

Enough for Elara.

Her face swam before his eyes, superimposed over the dark woods. The memory was so vivid it was painful, a sharp ache in the center of his chest. He could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his, her fingers tracing the calluses on his palm. He remembered the night he’d left, the scent of her skin—a mix of lavender soap and sweat—as he’d pressed his face into the curve of her neck.

"It's the last time," he'd whispered against her throat, his lips brushing the frantic pulse he found there. "I swear it, Elara. One last job, and we're done. We'll go somewhere warm."

She hadn't answered, just held him tighter, her body pliant and soft against his. He’d kissed her then, a desperate, searching kiss that tasted of salt and fear. His hands had roamed her back, sliding down to cup the full, perfect curve of her ass, pulling her hard against him. He needed to feel her, to brand the sensation of her body into his memory. He’d felt her tremble, a soft whimper escaping her lips as his thumb found the damp heat through the thin fabric of her nightdress. The thought of that heat, of sinking into her one more time before he left, had almost broken him. But he’d pulled away, the promise of their future a more potent drug than the immediate gratification of her body. A future bought with this. With dynamite and terror in the dead of night.

The memory faded, leaving him colder than before. The wind picked up, rustling the dry leaves at the edge of the tracks and carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. He squeezed his eyes shut. The payout wasn't just paper. It was the feel of Elara’s skin under his hands, the sound of her laugh, the hope of a morning where he didn't wake up with a gun under his pillow.

He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes, the fantasy dissolving back into the hard, cold reality. The tracks remained empty. The forest was still. He was alone. And Liam was late. Jake’s jaw tightened, the anxiety coiling in his gut once more, sharper this time. He hated waiting. It gave a man too much time to think about everything that could go wrong.

The sound, when it came, was not the distant whistle of a locomotive but the closer, clumsier crack of a dry branch snapping under a heavy hoof. It was followed by a low curse, carried on the wind. Jake didn't even have to look. He knew that careless approach, that disregard for the quiet sanctity of the night. He stayed kneeling, his back to the path, a knot of irritation tightening in his stomach. Liam. Of course.

A moment later, the horse, a big roan mare, shuffled into the clearing, its breath pluming in the cold air. Liam swung himself out of the saddle with a flourish that was meant to look easy but was betrayed by the slight tremble in his legs when he landed. He was younger than Jake by a decade, with a boyish face that still hadn't quite decided if it wanted to be handsome or just plain cocky. Tonight, it was losing the battle to a twitchy sort of fear that danced in his eyes, a fear he tried to bury under a mountain of swagger.

"Cutting it a little fine, aren't you?" Jake said, his voice flat and cold, not bothering to turn around. He ran a gloved finger along the detonator wire, the simple, focused action a balm against the fresh wave of anxiety Liam's presence brought.

"Had a little trouble shaking a tail," Liam said, his voice a little too loud in the oppressive silence. He slapped dust from his chaps, a nervous, repetitive motion. "Nothing I couldn't handle. Besides, a pretty thing in Black Creek was… reluctant to see me go." He winked, though Jake couldn't see it. The insinuation hung in the air, cheap and hollow.

Jake thought of Elara. He thought of the quiet, profound intimacy of their last night, the way her body had communicated everything her words wouldn't. Her fear, her love, her hope. It was a language of skin and breath, of fingers intertwined in the dark and the soft press of her stomach against his back. He remembered the faint, salty taste of her sweat on his tongue as he'd kissed the hollow of her throat, his hand sliding down her ribs to the swell of her hip, feeling the delicate bone beneath the warm, pliant flesh. He’d wanted to lose himself in her, to drive into her until the world outside their small bedroom ceased to exist, to replace the fear with the raw, anchoring friction of her body moving with his. That was real. This swaggering bullshit from Liam was just noise.

"Nobody followed you," Jake stated, finally turning to look at him. Liam flinched at the cold certainty in his tone. "You were drinking at the saloon and lost track of time. Don't lie to me. Not tonight."

Liam’s bravado faltered. He kicked at a loose stone, his gaze darting from Jake to the dark maw of the forest and back again. "Alright, alright. Just a drink to steady the nerves. You're wound so tight you're gonna snap, old man."

"I'm wound tight because my partner is a reckless amateur who shows up late smelling of cheap whiskey," Jake growled, rising to his feet. The height difference wasn't much, but right now Jake felt like a mountain. "This isn't a game, Liam. There are no second chances if that train comes early."

Liam held up his hands in a gesture of placation, but his eyes were drawn past Jake to the trestle. He took a few steps closer, his boots crunching on the gravel ballast. He whistled, a low, impressed sound that grated on Jake’s last nerve. "Damn, Jake. You really did it. Looks like a spider spun a trap for a goddamn giant." He crouched down, reaching out a hand toward the waxy blocks of dynamite.

"Don't touch anything," Jake snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass.

Liam snatched his hand back as if burned. He stood up, a nervous energy thrumming through him so visibly he seemed to vibrate. He paced a short, tight circle, his hands diving into his pockets and coming out empty. "Jesus. It just… it feels real now, you know?" He finally looked at Jake, the mask of bravado gone, replaced by the naked, twitching face of a kid in way over his head. "You sure this is enough to do the job?"

"It's more than enough," Jake said, his voice a low growl that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. "It's not about turning the whole damn ravine into a crater. It's about precision. We drop the near side of the trestle just as the locomotive approaches. The engineer sees the break, he hits the brakes. The train stops. The guards are rattled, disorganized. We go in, we take the payroll car, and we vanish before they even know what happened. Simple."

Liam’s nervous energy coalesced into a sneer. "Simple? Sounds like you're leaving a lot to chance. What if he doesn't brake in time? What if the gold car is at the back and derails down the cliff? We should wait. Let the engine get halfway across. Blow it then. Drop the whole thing right in the middle. No chance of it getting away."

The sheer, idiotic recklessness of the suggestion struck Jake like a physical blow. It was the kind of thinking that got men killed, the kind of impulsive bullshit he’d spent years trying to beat out of himself. It reminded him too much of the fire in his own blood, the one only Elara could stoke into a dangerous, thoughtless inferno.

The memory hit him, hot and sharp. A night two months ago, in a dusty little room above a cantina south of the border. He’d been gone three days, scouting the very route this train was now taking. He’d come back covered in trail dust and smelling of sweat and horses, his nerves frayed raw. Elara had been waiting. She'd just bathed, her skin still damp and fragrant with cheap, floral soap, her dark hair pinned loosely on her head. She was wearing his shirt, the thin cotton doing little to hide the shape of her breasts, the dark points of her nipples clearly visible.

He hadn't said a word. He’d kicked the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the small room, and crossed to her in three long strides. He’d backed her against the rough-plastered wall, his mouth crashing down on hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a desperate, plundering act of possession. He tasted soap and woman, and he was starving for it. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling the pins free, letting the dark cascade fall around her shoulders. Her own hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the dirty fabric of his shirt, her nails scraping against his chest as she arched into him.

His calloused palm slid from her waist down over the curve of her hip, bunching the shirt until his fingers found the bare skin of her thigh. She gasped into his mouth, a hot, wet sound of surrender that made his cock strain painfully against the denim of his trousers. He ground his hips against her, letting her feel the thick, hard ridge of his arousal. He wanted to tear the shirt from her body, to lift her right there, to wrap her legs around his waist and drive into her against the wall until the tension and fear of the last three days bled out of him in one final, shuddering release. He could feel the heat of her, the dampness already blooming at the juncture of her thighs, a silent, urgent invitation. The thought of parting her labia with his thumb, of feeling her slick heat coat his skin before he filled her completely, nearly sent him over the edge.

It was her sharp intake of breath, the slight wince of pain as his beard scraped her tender skin, that had broken the spell. He’d pulled back, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to hers. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, mixed with a raw, matching desire that mirrored his own. He was being too rough, too careless. In their line of work, carelessness was a death sentence.

He blinked, the humid heat of the cantina room replaced by the biting cold of the forest night. Liam was still staring at him, a defiant jut to his jaw. The same reckless impulse Jake had just remembered fighting in himself was written all over the kid’s face. The realization filled Jake with a white-hot rage that was equal parts fury and terror.

In a flash, he closed the distance between them, his gloved hand shooting out to grab the front of Liam’s jacket, twisting the fabric until his knuckles dug into the boy’s collarbone. He slammed him back against the rough bark of a pine tree. The roan mare shied away with a nervous snort.

"You listen to me," Jake snarled, his face inches from Liam’s. He could smell the sour whiskey on his breath. "We are not dropping a train full of men into a ravine. We are not murderers. We are thieves. There's a difference. We do this my way. Clean. Precise. You follow my lead, you do exactly what I say, when I say it. You so much as spit without my say-so, and I will leave you here with a bullet in your gut for the buzzards to find. Do you understand me?"

Liam’s eyes were wide, the bravado finally shattered, replaced by the stark fear of a man staring his own mortality in the face. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the tense silence. He gave a short, jerky nod, unable to find his voice.

"I said," Jake repeated, giving him a vicious shake, "do you understand me?"

"Yes," Liam croaked, his voice thin and reedy. "Yes, I understand."

Jake held him there for a second longer, letting the threat hang in the air between them like a foul odor. Then he shoved him away. Liam stumbled, catching his balance before he fell. He stood there, breathing raggedly, refusing to meet Jake’s eyes. The argument was over. The cracks, however, had been torn wide open. An ugly, silent resentment now filled the space where the cheap whiskey and bravado had been.

The silence that fell between them was heavier than before, thick with the sour tang of Liam's fear and Jake's contempt. Liam didn't move, just stood by the pine tree, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The fight had gone out of him, replaced by a sullen, simmering resentment that was almost more dangerous than his earlier bravado. Jake turned his back on him, a deliberate dismissal, and knelt by the tracks once more. He ran a final, careful check on the detonator connection, his movements economical and precise. Every action was a prayer to a god he didn't believe in, a ritual to ward off the chaos Liam seemed so determined to invite.

And then it came.

A low, mournful whistle, so faint it was almost a ghost on the wind. It cut through the tension, a sound that changed everything. All the anger, all the recriminations, dissolved into pure, cold adrenaline. This was it. The clock was ticking.

"Get the horses," Jake said, his voice stripped of all emotion, flat and hard as the steel rail. "Keep them back in the trees where the light won't catch them. And stay there until you hear the second blast. Not a second before."

Liam flinched as if struck, but he moved, scurrying toward the roan mare with a clumsy haste that set Jake’s teeth on edge. He watched him for a moment, a dark silhouette melting back into the deeper shadows of the forest. Alone again. It was better this way.

Jake settled into position behind a thicket of scrub oak about fifty yards from the trestle, the detonator cold and solid in his hand. He had a clear view of the tracks as they curved out of the forest. The ground beneath him began to hum, a low thrumming that traveled up through the soles of his boots and into his bones. The sound of the train grew steadily, from a distant rumble to a percussive, earth-shaking rhythm. Chug-chug-chug-BOOM. Chug-chug-chug-BOOM. The heartbeat of a mechanical beast.

A single, brilliant point of light pierced the darkness, growing larger, brighter, splitting the night in two. The beam swept across the trees, painting the pine needles in stark, momentary relief before plunging them back into blackness.

The raw power of it, the sheer, unstoppable momentum, sent a tremor of primal fear through him. He fought it down, his thumb stroking the smooth plunger of the detonator. He filled his mind with Elara. Not her face, not her voice, but the feel of her.

The memory was of a hot, lazy afternoon a month ago. The sun had been beating down on the tin roof of their rented shack, the air inside thick and still. She’d been lying on the bed, naked, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, her hair a dark tangle on the pillow. He’d knelt between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady. He remembered the way she’d watched him, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded with desire, as he’d lowered his head. He remembered the taste of her, a salty, musky flavor that was hers alone, the scent of her arousal filling his senses. His tongue had traced the delicate folds of her labia, teasing the sensitive peak of her clitoris until she was writhing beneath him, her fingers clutching at his hair, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Jake," she’d whimpered, her hips beginning to buck. "Please…"

He hadn't let her come. Not yet. He’d lifted his head, a smug smile on his lips as he’d watched her struggle for control. Then he’d positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her slick, waiting entrance. She’d wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in. The sensation of sinking into her heat, her wetness enveloping him, had been so intense it had almost buckled his knees. He’d driven into her, a long, slow stroke that made her cry out, a sharp sound of pleasure and pain. That was what he was fighting for. The right to that sound, the right to that heat, the right to a life where that was the only danger he ever had to face.

The locomotive thundered into view, a black behemoth spitting smoke and cinders. The noise was deafening, a roar of steam and steel that vibrated in his teeth. The headlight washed over him, blinding him for a second. He didn't flinch. He counted the beats. One. Two. The engine was almost at the trestle. Three. His finger tightened on the plunger. This was for her. For the taste of her skin, for the feel of her wrapped around him, for the promise of somewhere warm.

Four.

Now.

The wave of heat and pressure threw Jake back against the hard-packed earth, knocking the wind from his lungs. For a moment, the world was a deafening roar of tortured metal and splintering wood, a concussive blast that vibrated through his teeth and into his skull. He tasted grit and cordite. When he finally pushed himself up onto his elbows, his ears ringing, the sight made his stomach clench.

It wasn't just stopped. One of the forward carriages had jumped the tracks entirely, torn open like a can. It lay on its side, a wounded beast of steel and steam, hissing into the night. Flames licked up from the undercarriage, casting a flickering, hellish orange light on the surrounding pines. This was too much. This was a disaster.

“Holy shit,” Liam breathed, his voice giddy with awe. He was already on his feet, eyes wide and shining in the firelight, a feral grin splitting his face. “Did you see that, Jake? Fucking beautiful!”

“Beautiful?” Jake scrambled up, grabbing Liam by the front of his jacket. The fabric was coarse under his trembling fingers. “This isn’t the plan, you goddamn idiot! You used too much! I told you two sticks!”

“And I said we needed more punch!” Liam shoved him back, his bravado surging to meet Jake’s panic. The younger man was vibrating with adrenaline, high on the destruction. “The train is stopped, isn’t it? The safe is in the mail car. It worked!”

“People could be dead in there!” Jake yelled, his voice cracking. He gestured wildly at the wreckage, at the faint, terrible sound of a scream that cut through the hiss of steam.

Liam’s eyes flashed, his grin tightening. “That’s not our problem. The money is our problem.” He took a step closer, crowding Jake, the scent of sweat and gunpowder sharp between them. “Relax. This is the fun part.”

“There’s nothing fun about this,” Jake seethed, his control fraying with every passing second. All his careful calculations, his timing, his precision—all of it shattered by Liam’s reckless impulse.

Liam laughed, a harsh, breathless sound. “You need to loosen up.” Before Jake could react, Liam’s hands were on him, one fisting in his shirt, the other tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He yanked Jake forward, crashing their mouths together.

It wasn’t a kiss of affection. It was a collision, brutal and demanding. Liam’s lips were hard, his teeth scraping against Jake’s. It was pure chaos, a reflection of the scene around them, and Jake hated it. He hated it for a second, then his mind went blank. The shock, the fear, the rage—it all curdled into a different kind of heat. He shoved back, but didn't break away. Instead, his hands came up to grip Liam’s arms, his fingers digging in as he answered the kiss with a raw fury of his own.

Liam groaned into his mouth, the sound a low vibration that shot straight to Jake’s groin. He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged pants, his forehead pressed against Jake’s. “See?” he rasped, his voice thick. “Adrenaline.”

He pulled Jake backward, stumbling away from the firelight and into the deep shadows of the forest. He pushed Jake against the rough bark of a massive pine, the sounds of the wreck a distant, horrifying symphony. The kiss resumed, messier this time, tongues clashing, a desperate, frantic search for something solid in a world that had just exploded.

Liam’s hand slid down Jake’s chest, over the frantic beat of his heart, to the front of his jeans. He fumbled with the button, his knuckles grazing the hardening length beneath. Jake gasped against his mouth, his own hands tearing at the buttons on Liam’s fly. This was insane. They were fugitives, maybe murderers, and all he could think about was the friction of denim against his aching cock.

Liam finally freed him, his cool fingers wrapping around Jake’s hot, rigid flesh. Jake hissed, arching into the touch. In the flickering, distant light, he could see the dark hunger in Liam’s eyes. This was what Liam thrived on—chaos, danger, the ragged edge of ruin. And for this one terrible moment, Jake was right there with him. He was falling into it, letting the careful planner inside him die.

He pushed Liam’s hand away only to guide him, turning him and shoving him forward against the tree. He hiked up Liam’s jacket, his hands finding the worn denim of his jeans, pulling them down just enough. There was no time for finesse, no room for anything but urgent, desperate need. He spat on his fingers, slicking himself before driving into Liam’s heat with a single, rough thrust.

Liam cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was half pain, half pleasure, his fingers digging into the bark of the tree. The air was thick with the smell of pine sap, smoke, and their own sweat. Every thrust was a frantic, punishing rhythm, a desperate attempt to burn away the terror of what they’d done. Jake gripped Liam’s hips, his knuckles white, his mind a storm of fire and screaming metal and the incredible, tight heat surrounding him. He felt Liam’s body tense, heard the choked-off groan as he came, and the feeling pushed Jake over the edge. His own release was a violent, shuddering wave that left him weak-kneed and gasping, his forehead pressed between Liam’s shoulder blades.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the crackle of the distant fire. Then, reality crashed back in. The high was gone, replaced by a cold, sickening dread. A voice shouted from the wreck. Then another. They had to move. Now.