Free The Geneva Decision by Seeley James

would be in danger.
    She ran.
    The only way out was down the empty escalator in front of her. She flew down it three steps at a time, with a long way to go. Boots clumped on the stairs above and behind her. He’d have time to aim before she reached the bottom.
    She vaulted onto the chromed center rail that separated up from down, took three running steps on it and jumped. Landing on her butt, she began a long fast slide.
    Sparks flew off the metal near her hand.
    A bang reverberated through the platform area.
    She rolled left then back right as she slid, and jumped the last three feet. Staggering a few steps, she fought to get her balance while putting as much distance between her and Spiky-hair as she could. Then she remembered—the brochure said the platform was five hundred meters long. She’d started at the middle, taken a long escalator, and was now looking at the last two hundred meters of covered train station. A long distance for a runner. Not for a bullet. Beyond the station, she could see miles of beautiful French countryside, flat as a pancake with nowhere to hide.
    To her right lay two train tracks in a lowered bed and a concrete wall that ended fifty meters away. She looked left—nothing. Ahead—nothing. She looked back. Spiky-hair was coming into view on the escalator. She kept running, but no hiding place appeared. Her only chance was to cross the rail bed, get behind the concrete wall, and shoot back.
    Another bang rattled the building, scaring the daylights out of her. Bystanders screamed.
    She jumped off the platform and into the track bed. Steel rails were bolted to concrete railroad ties. She jumped a rail, lost her balance, stumbled the next four steps before hopping the next rail. A puff of dust preceded another bang by an instant. His third shot, five left if it was a Sig Sauer. She swerved left, back right, then turned on the afterburners in a straight line. The timer in her head calculated how long it would take him to line up his fourth shot. She jerked right three feet. Another bang. Four left.
    Shrieking police whistles erupted from the concourse above them. The gendarmes were on their way. She needed only thirty seconds or so to escape Spiky-hair. He needed only half a second to line up another shot.
    She faked another swerve right and crossed the rail back to her left. With another antelope leap, she darted back right. The wall ended another ten meters ahead. She ran straight for three strides, knowing he would start shooting faster under pressure. She ducked left and right, but the next shot didn’t come. She stole a glance over her shoulder.
    Spiky-hair had followed her into the track bed but landed with less grace and was picking himself off the ground. She was going to make it to the wall.
    In two strides she cleared the corner, put on the brakes, and planted her body against six inches of concrete. She moved into position and peeked around the edge. Spiky-hair was up and running, fire in his eyes. Her aim was fair, not great, her weapon less accurate than his and with a lot less range. She would wait.
    Her feet felt the rumbling first. The ground shook beneath her toes, vibrations tingling from her shins to her knees, rising to her quads.
    The northbound Marseille-Paris was coming in.
    She glanced left. She was standing on the TGV’s high-speed pass through track. Four hundred tons of France’s finest engineering was headed her way at three hundred kilometers per hour. It entered the tunnel at the far end. She did the math: five hundred meters at three hundred km/h meant six seconds before she would join the grasshoppers on the TGV’s aerodynamic nose.
    She poked her head back around the wall. Spiky-hair was less than six seconds away. At speed, the train would pass in half a second, providing no cover. She had to keep running and hope Spiky-hair gave up, or stand her ground and pray for a miracle.
    Pia opted for both.
    She stepped out from behind the wall, aimed, fired, and missed.