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.

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.