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

turned, stepped over the limp body of her partner, and entered the baggage car, closing the door behind him.
    Kane led him to the porter’s body. The man had been shoved under a set of steel bulkhead shelves. Judging from the bruising, he had been strangled to death.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Tucker murmured.
    He donned his jacket, gloves, and cap, then slung his rucksack over his shoulder. At the rear of the car, he used the porter’s keys to unlock the metal door. It swung open, and a rush of wind shoved him sideways. The rattling of the train’s wheels filled his ears.
    Directly ahead was the caboose door.
    With Kane following closely, Tucker stepped onto the open platform, shut the door behind him, then unlocked the caboose and stepped into the last car. He hurried across to the rear, through the last door—­and a moment later, they were at the tail end of the Trans-­Siberian Express, standing on a railed catwalk.
    Beneath them, tracks flashed past. The sky was clear and black and studded with stars. To their right, a slope led to a partially frozen river; to their left, scattered snowdrifts. The locomotive was chugging up a slight grade, moving well below its average speed, but still much faster than Tucker would have liked.
    He tugged the collar of his jacket up around his neck against the frigid night.
    At his knee, Kane wagged his tail, excited. No surprise there. The shepherd was ready to go, come what may. Tucker knelt and cupped Kane’s head in both of his hands, bringing his face down close.
    â€œWho’s a good boy?”
    Kane leaned forward, until their noses touched.
    â€œThat’s right. You are.”
    It was a routine of theirs.
    Standing but keeping a grip on Kane’s vest collar, Tucker navigated the catwalk steps until they were only a few feet above the racing ground. He poked his head past the caboose’s side, looking forward, waiting, watching, until he saw a particularly thick snowdrift approaching.
    â€œReady, boy?” he said. “We’re gonna jump! Steady now . . . steady . . .”
    The snowdrift flashed into view. Tucker tossed his rucksack out into the darkness.
    â€œG O , K ANE ! J UMP !”
    Without hesitation, the shepherd leaped out into the night.
    Tucker waited a beat, then followed.

8
    March 8, 11:24 P.M.
    Siberia, Russia
    Tucker immediately realized all snowdrifts were not alike, especially in Siberia. Having gone through weeks of thawing and freezing, the drift’s face had become armored by several inches of ice.
    He hit the frozen surface hip-­first, hoping to transition into a roll.
    It was not to be.
    He crashed through the top of the berm before his momentum flipped his legs up and over his head, sending him into a somersault down the drift’s rear slope. He slammed onto his back and began sliding on his butt down the long, steep surface, his heels stuttering over the ice-­encrusted snow. He tried jamming his elbows into the drift, to slow himself, but got no traction. To his right, alarmingly close, rose a lizard-­back of boulders.
    Above him, he heard a growl. He tipped his head back in time to see Kane’s sleek form come galloping down the slope. The shepherd was there in seconds and clamped his teeth into Tucker’s jacket collar. Once latched on, Kane sat down on his haunches and lifted his head, his strong back muscles straining to take Tucker’s weight.
    Ahead and a few feet to the right, a sapling jutted from the snow. On impulse, he swung his left leg out, curled it, and hooked the trunk with his ankle. The momentum whipped him around, dragging Kane along, too, before jerking them both to a sudden stop.
    All was quiet.
    Tucker lay perfectly still and mentally scanned his body. Nothing seemed broken. He could feel Kane’s weight hanging from his collar.
    â€œKane? How’re you doing, pal?”
    The shepherd replied with a muffled growl that Tucker recognized as