Sidney’s shoulders slumped. “Never mind.” There went any hope that Sherlock had escaped while she’d been unconscious.
The two goons guarding her laughed.
No, there was Sherlock Holmes, with prisoner chains on. Thekind that hobbled a person but still allowed them to move and do menial things like operate doors under supervision. He was standing on a platform in front of a large metal lever and a post with two wooden flags. One was down. The other was up, and on it was a large, painted number one.
A man in a suit, who looked far more put together than anybody else Sidney’d seen that night taped together, was standing next to Sherlock holding a gun pointing at the detective. He was talking too quietly for Sidney to hear every word, especially over the low rumble of the steam engine at her back.
They were firing up the train. And hot, by the sounds of it. Their dad had a train set when they were little. It was one of the few things he really loved to do, and Sidney had been obsessed with sitting there with him, letting him tell her all about the different kinds of engines and the way they ran.
Most of the knowledge had faded over the years. Not much use in her marketing life for random bits of train engineering facts. But she knew that the hotter the engine burned, the more steam. The more steam, the more speed, the more speed…
The more crushing force. Not like it’d take much to turn her into a fly on the windshield. In fact, the hotter they got it, the faster her death, and the more merciful. She never wanted to know what it felt like to be Judge Doom inWho Framed Roger Rabbit.
A few words she did catch, however. Something about the innocent bystanders being drugged?
“You’re mad! This ismad!What kind of nonsense is that bastard trying toprove?Let them all go, it’s me he’s after!” Sherlock shouted at the other man. When he lurched toward him to try to grab for the gun, another, burlier man knocked Sherlock’s knees out.
The train lurched.
She saw someone run from the engine. Likely whoever had pulled the brake. No one else was going to go down on this wreckage but her. Her, or the innocent—but non-existent—civilians on the other track.
Either she died.
Or they did.
She knew what side she was on. “Sherlock! Sherlock, please—do something! Save me!”
The train began to move.
And all Sidney could do now was pray.
Please, Virtue—don’t let me die.
