Free The Geneva Decision by Seeley James Page A

Spiky-hair looked up. Stopped and aimed. Pia ducked back as a chunk of concrete turned to powder. The train was bearing down. She could make out the engineer driving it. Time to run. She reached around the wall, exposing only her hand, and fired blindly to slow her pursuer. Then turned and ran.
    The track bed used raised concrete ties to absorb some of the vibration and spare the track bed excess wear. Spikes and bolts held the rails to the ties. The design left a gap of three inches between the rails and the bed. Pia’s foot caught the gap and she fell face first into the track bed. Her knee hit hard. Her chest hit the far rail. One hand jammed into the gap under the other rail. Instant panic flooded through her.
    The noise grew to an alarming pitch as the train approached. The air pressure rose fast. The ground shook harder.
    She could not tell the source of her problem for one whole second. Enough time for the train to travel eighty-three meters. Most of a football field. Pain shot from her knee to her brain. She tried to spin in place, but her foot held fast. Realizing the problem, she backed up an inch and tugged her foot. Not enough room. She backed up another inch and tried again. This time her foot came free.
    She flipped onto her back and looked at the oncoming train. Close enough to see the engineer’s eyes wide open, along with his mouth. The train’s horn blasted a shockwave of sound. She buckled in the middle, did a power sit-up, and flipped up into a standing position. A common maneuver on the soccer field. She leapt backwards four feet. Just outside the rail. With a second leap, she was clear of the track. Her head came up. Spiky-hair was rounding the corner at full speed. His eyes, filled with rage, locked on hers.
    The train passed in front of her, nothing but a blur of steel for a quarter of a second. Then it was gone. Spikey-hair was gone too.
    In the next instant, her eyes were full of the blowing dust and grit that swirled in the currents behind the train. She coughed and spit and blinked and blinked and blinked. As her vision cleared, the sound of shrieking steel assaulted her ears. The Marseille-Paris TGV screeched in a desperate attempt to stop. Given the weight and speed, she estimated it would take at least one kilometer.
    Pia turned and ran for the far platform. As she reached the edge of the tunnel, she checked the gathered travelers for al-Jabal before crossing the tracks. Not there. Everyone faced the train and the shower of sparks flying out from under it. She placed her hands on the platform, swung herself up and walked to the escalator. No one looked her way.
    At the top of the escalator, a gendarme waited. Far down the concourse, three others emerged from the other platform’s escalators. Pia presented her wrists to the officer.
    “Let me guess,” she said while he cuffed her, “al-Jabal got away?”

Chapter 12
    Chapter 12
----
    Potomac, Maryland
    23-May, 5AM
    P ia slammed rapid punches into the double-ended bag, an eight-inch ball suspended at shoulder height between the ceiling and floor with elastic straps. Her blows were a mix of uppercuts, hooks, crosses, and jabs that landed with blinding speed. Barefoot, she wore black spandex shorts, a white sports bra, and pink boxing gloves. Each punch sent the bag reeling away, only to be pulled home by the elastic, where her following punch sent it flying again. Despite the erratic motion, she never missed. She concentrated on each blow, calculating distance, speed, and placement in an instant. Her breathing intensified. Her punches grew tighter, faster, stronger. Her trainer sat in his wheelchair, tracking the blows with a hand-held tally counter. He called them out in twenty-fives: one-fifty, one seventy-five, two hundred.
    She became vaguely aware that Agent Jonelle had entered the gym at the far end.
    Her trainer said, “Thirty seconds. Finish strong now.”
    Pia pounded faster. The bell rang.
    “Three forty-two,” her trainer said.