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“I’m afraid I have reason to question that,” he said, still trying to control the struggling woman.
“Ye got no right to do this.” Ivy McGregor turned blazing eyes up to him. It made the blueness in their depths nearly transparent. As if he were looking at two cubes of ice instead.
“Actually, ma’am, I do.” This made her pause.
“Excuse me, sir.” A young porter suddenly appeared. Another damn porter. His youthful face was a mask of confusion and boyish duty. Noting the handcuffs on Ivy McGregor, his chin dropped momentarily before he pulled himself together and tried to appear brave. “I demand you explain yourself, sir.”
“In due time,” he snarled beginning to lose what little patience he had left. Raising his gun, he pointed it at him and said, “Take us to the closest isolated car you’ve got.”
The boy blinked, then moved backwards. Sam was directly on his heel.
“T-that would be baggage car, sir.”
“Great, let’s go.” Keeping the gun on the kid, Sam moved quickly through the dining car into the next one until they eventually reached the last closed door.
Sam had to literally drag his prisoner. She may not be the fastest moving hostage he’d endured, but she sure as hell was one spitfire in his hands. “How does it open?”
“You have to release the lever.” He pointed to the handle. “But it’s only meant for employees,” he said before his eyes grew round as comprehension struck. “You can’t go in there, sir!”
Hauling Ivy McGregor in front of him, he shot an impertinent glance to the boy. “Try stopping me.”
The corridor was narrow, hardly wide enough for two people to stand side by side. Sam had no alternative but to reach around Ivy and pull the lever. In doing so, his arm accidentally brushed her blouse where her breasts lay just beneath. He fleetingly noticed how surprisingly full they felt. The baggy blouse she wore was very fooling. There was more woman
beneath the grays and blacks than he would have ever guessed.
Feeling irritated at this sudden train of thought, he yanked on the baggage car’s door and slid it open, pushing her inside probably a bit too hard. Her small frame tumbled backwards into the darkness.
“Now, wait just one second!” Harold Radford exclaimed, and Sam had to concede the man was certainly relentless. A quick glance over his shoulder and he noticed he wasn’t alone either. A few other male passengers had joined him. Someone shouted for the conductor to be summoned at which point Sam gave a weary sigh before turning back to his prisoner.
She had spun around and was taking a quick survey of her surroundings. It was a narrow but long box lined with travelling chests and crates. But no windows. Sam reached for the door and began to slide it shut, hardly noticing the look of alarm lighting up her face.
“Wait please,” she lunged for the door. “I beg of ye, don’t leave me in here!”
But with a resounding slam, he shut the door and sealed her inside. And, at last, successfully apprehended his suspect.
Behind him, numerous voices rushed him at once. He was barely able to register any one question, though, oddly, he had heard Ivy McGregor’s plea and the panic in her voice, right before he closed the door. Kind of odd considering how fierce and determined she had been up to that point.
Now, for the others. Releasing a deep guttural sigh, he turned and faced the crowd of angry faces.
“Listen,” he started, then paused to steady his breath. He hated this part. “My name is Sam Michalski and I’m a bounty hunter for the United States of America. For your own safety, it was necessary I confine my prisoner immediately.”
Allison Radford’s hand shot to her chest. “Prisoner?”
He sighed. “The woman I have just apprehended is Ivy McGregor. There is a warrant for her arrest for the murder of a prominent gentleman in Chicago.”
The rush of exclamations which swept over the gathering quieted the train some enabling Sam to finally have his voice heard above the excitement.
“I’ve been tracking Ms. McGregor for three months.” He glanced at Allison Radford. “The same amount of time she has been under your employ. I believe she came to Canada through the United States from where she was employed under the Hendrickson household.”
“Moira told us she emigrated from Ireland,” Harold Radford said.
“Which I believe she probably did,” Sam replied. “But more like thirteen years ago rather than three months ago.”
He could see visions of death and murder playing about in their minds by the horrified expressions on their faces. Mrs. Radford’s next words confirmed such.
“Do you think she was planning my murder?” she exclaimed, a hand closing protectively around her white throat.
Sam noticed the warnings of an impending wave of panic was about to sweep through the passengers, and decided it best to veer it off course. “I don’t know, ma’am, but I suspect it’s a good thing we have her locked up.”
