Free Kill Switch (9780062135285) by Grant James; Blackwood Rollins

staring out at the night.
    With Kane at his heels, Tucker stepped out, slid the door shut behind him, and strode past the ­couple with a polite nod. He pushed through the glass connector door, crossed the small alcove between the two carriages, and pushed into the next sleeper car. The corridor ahead was thankfully empty.
    Halfway down, he stopped and cocked his head. Kane was looking back in the direction they’d come.
    Somewhere a door had opened, then banged shut.
    â€œCome on,” Tucker said and kept walking.
    He crossed through the next sleeper car and reached a glass door at the end. Beyond it, he spotted the small alcove that connected this carriage with the baggage coach.
    As he touched the door handle, a voice rose behind him, from the far end of the corridor. “Tucker?”
    He recognized her voice but didn’t turn. He slid open the door.
    â€œTucker, where are you going? I thought we were—­”
    He stepped into the alcove with Kane and slid the glass door closed behind him. The shepherd immediately let out a low growl.
    Danger.
    Tucker swung around and locked eyes with a porter sharing the same cramped space, standing in the shadows off to the side. He immediately recognized the man’s hard face, along with his deadly expression. It was one of Felice’s team. The man had exchanged his black leather duster for a porter’s outfit. Equally caught by surprise, the man lunged for his jacket pocket.
    Tucker didn’t hesitate, kicking out with his heel, striking the man in the solar plexus. He fell back into the bulkhead, hitting his skull with a crack and slumping to the floor, knocked out.
    He reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out a Walther P22 semiautomatic; the magazine was full, one round in the chamber, the safety off. He reengaged the safety and shoved the P22 into his own belt, then rummaged through the man’s clothes until he found a key ring and an identification badge.
    The picture it bore didn’t match the slack face before him, but Tucker recognized the photo. It was the porter who had shyly petted Kane when they had first boarded. With a pang of regret, he knew the man was likely dead. Felice and company were playing hardball.
    Tucker took the keys, spun, and locked the connector door just as Felice reached it.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked, feigning concern, a hand at her throat. “Did you hurt that poor man?”
    â€œHe’ll be fine. But what about the real porter?”
    Doubt flickered in Felice’s eyes. “You’re talking crazy. Just come out and we can—­”
    â€œYour English accent is slipping, Ms. Nilsson.”
    Felice’s face changed like a passing shadow, going colder, more angular. “So what’s your plan then, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. “Jump from the train and go where? Siberia is hell. You won’t last a day.”
    â€œWe love a challenge.”
    â€œYou won’t make it. We’ll hunt you down. Work with me instead. The two of us together, we can—­”
    â€œStop talking,” he growled.
    Felice shut her mouth, but her eyes were sharp with hatred.
    Tucker stepped away from the door and unlocked the baggage car. He pointed inside and touched Kane’s side. “S CENT. B LOOD. R ETURN.”
    His partner trotted into the darkened space. After ten seconds, Kane let out an alert whine. He reappeared at Tucker’s side and sat down, staring back into the baggage car.
    Tucker now knew the true fate of the unfortunate porter.
    â€œWe’re leaving,” he said to Felice. “If you’re lucky, no one will find the body before you reach Chita.”
    â€œWho’s to say you didn’t kill him?” Felice said. “He caught you burglarizing the baggage car, you killed him, then jumped from the train. I’m a witness.”
    â€œIf you want to draw that kind of attention to yourself, be my guest.”
    Tucker