reel and sink to his knees, pushing himself firmly against the large steel wheels. Both doors were forced open in unison, bandits rushing in the one and three fully armed guards jumping from the other.
A blast sounded off somewhere and Jameson took note of it in the back of his mind while raising the revolver, his off-hand hovering over the hammer. The guards turned to the younger man out of his view and began firing. A moment later Jameson followed suite.
A quick squeeze of the trigger and the first guard fell in gory fashion. Jameson had not gunned down a man with the re-bored revolver in a long time and had totally forgotten how over-powerful the new rounds were. A hole opened up through the guard’s right pectoral, pushing his body back a few paces end over end.
The remaining guards jerked to see the body launch behind them, turned back too late. Jameson’s off-hand fell onto the hammer and his trigger finger contracted in succession, the second and third guard toppling over in turn.
“Nice shooting, old man.”
Jameson took a few deep breaths and holstered the revolver, rising to his feet and turning to Jason--
But the kid was sunken into the tall grass, motionless and clearly dead. The verdant green was stained with dark red. Only a moment of confusion followed, at which Jameson calmly turned to see Briggs standing in the doorway, looking over the fallen guards with an amused smirk on his face.
Jameson stepped forward and peered through the boxcar. The man with the scattergun was scanning over the interior of the car, the third bandit presently stepping up after his companion.
“Poor kid,” Briggs stated simply. “I told him it would be dangerous.” Jameson nodded absent mindedly, the cogs in his mind turning.
Briggs turned, motioned to the dimmer of the heavies, who obediently lumbered off and returned a minute later, a second burlap rucksack over his shoulder. He dropped it clumsily, eliciting an almost imperceptible flinch from Briggs.
Jameson had guessed what was in the second sack: more dynamite. Much more, from the effort the heavy put into moving it. Too much for simply blowing open the vault-car, he thought.
The party paced back down the train, weapons held aloft and at the ready. Near the middle was their target, a solid car covered all over in thick plating, the sliding door sealed from the inside. Angled slits allowed the men on the inside to see out but not be seen.
“How many guards did you say there were?” Jameson asked, dropping rounds into the revolver.
“I didn’t,” Briggs replied with a smirk. “But if you must know, my contact told me four.”
“How armed?”
“Heavy.”
“How heavy?”
“Really goddamn heavy, Jameson,” Briggs said, turning away and snatching up the dynamite. Jameson chuckled under his breath. Sadistic, maybe, but he always loved making others angry.
The group fell instantly silent as a muffled voice came from behind the slats. “You’ll never get in,” the voice shouted. “Give up while you’re alive!”
Briggs opened the bag and sunk his arm into it. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Talk talk, they always talk.” He withdrew his hand, three cylinders of explosive in his grasp. “Why do they always fuckin’ talk?” He stepped right up to the metal plating, wedging the dynamite into the slats. “I’ll give you something to talk about.”
Jameson moved back to the trees, followed by Briggs and the heavies. He pulled the rifle around and shouldered it, crouching down behind the brush. To his sides he could hear the heavies ready their weapons.
“Whenever you get around to it,” Briggs murmured, tapping his foot impatiently.
Jameson reinserted the earplugs and brought the sights to his eye, following them down the barrel and to the small sliver of explosive visible. His breath slowed and he applied pressure to the trigger.
The report of the rifle was drowned out by the blast. Though much smaller than the previous, the heat and shockwave still pushed him back, rising into the air and dissipating in fine curls of smoke. He returned his eyes to the train as the smoke cleared.
A hole about half a pace across was punctured into the plating, dagger-like fingers protruding into the dark interior. Somehow Jameson had expected a bigger hole.
Apparently Briggs had as well. He scoffed incredulously and cocked his head, eyes scanning over the hole. “How disappointing,” he stated dryly.
A thin blast resounded through the enclosed car, amplifying and escaping into the jungle. Jameson reacted by falling to the dirt, his head whipping around the see one of the heavy’s spun by the shot, a fine mist of blood pluming into the dense air. Briggs remained standing and drew his own revolver, quickly squeezing off a few rounds while strafing to the side away from the line of fire.
The heavy was bleeding profusely from a wound around his collar bone. He stared over at Jameson, a puzzled expression splashed across his face. As the older man watched, his face went lax, body relaxed with an audible finality.
Jameson pulled his eyes away from the corpse and glanced towards the boxcar. Briggs had made his way forward, pressed his body against the plating, clear of the gaping hole. The remaining bandit mirrored him on the opposite side, shotgun clutched in his grip.
Jameson chambered the next round, by his count the last in the small magazine, and stood. He was welcomed by a succession of small arms fire, causing him to jump-skip backwards to the safety of a gnarled tree.
He glanced around to see Briggs retrieve a stick of explosives. He pulled a box of matches from a pocket and lit one, holding it to the end of the wick. It quickly caught and the flame instantly began moving upwards towards the inevitable explosion.
Briggs tossed it in. A cacophonous, too-loud blast echoed through the car. The plating seemed to bulge outwards slightly, the metal stretched from the heat and concussive force. Smoke poured from the hole and the pungent smell of burnt flesh filled the air.
Content that the occupants were dead, Briggs signaled over to the remaining heavy, who obeyed immediately. The man stepped onto the running board and stuck his head into the hole, peering around the interior. A moment later he withdrew and gave the all-clear signal.
Briggs, Jameson had noted, was not a large man by any stretch. Tall, thin, wiry. The scattergun looked as if it would break his body in two when used. And now, the ex-soldier showed, he was quite agile. Effortlessly he pulled himself bodily into and through the fissure, disappearing from view.
Dull clanks came then the sliding gate rolled away, exposing the compartment beyond. Jameson strode across the gap, jumping up into the car behind the heavy.
His eyes were met with a grisly sight. Body parts, blood, entrails; they were strewn about, some even plastered to the walls and ceiling like a macabre sort of chandelier. Briggs grimaced at the sight and the heavy leapt from the car, vomiting onto the tracks a moment later. Through the destruction, Jameson could make out a large steel vault inset at the end of the car, a six-spoked iron wheel sealing it shut.
“How do you plan on getting through?”
Briggs shrugged him off. “Maybe I'll just knock.”
Jameson was astonished to see him do just that. Briggs paced across the car, carefully avoiding the mess all around, slammed the butt of the scattergun against the door three times. The knocks reverberated about for a moment before dying away.
Miraculously, the titanic gear began to turn. A series of metallic clicks and a final thump later, the vault swung open slowly. Jameson silently pushed the final round into place. His eyes narrowed, trying to discern any shapes. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled.
Then a man strode from the vault, a rifle cradled in his arm, the uniform of the bank guards disguising him.
“Hello, Briggs.” He extended his hand and Briggs grasped it in turn.
“Damon.”
The man now looked about the car, seeing Jameson and the heavy for the first time. He nodded curtly to them, his eyes staying a curiously long time on Jameson's weapon.
??
?Got a bag?” he asked.
The heavy exited, returned with a second burlap sack, identical to the one holding the explosives. He threw it to Damon, who immediately withdrew into the vault. Briggs followed, the muscle bringing up the rear. His eyes gradually became adjusted to the dark of the vault and he could now make out the shapes of the three men and a large shelf behind them. He smiled despite himself when he recognized what lined them: piles upon piles of banknotes.
He was snapped from his thoughts at the distant, quiet grind of metal wheels on rollers. Briggs and his men must have heard it as well; they stood erect and stared out into the car at him. Briggs motioned to them to continue before joining Jameson. He didn't trust the thief by any stretch, but he knew he didn't have to fear a bullet in the back at the moment.
Jameson pressed himself to the back of the boxcar door and peeked around. Sure enough, a half dozen men were coming towards them, single file, various armaments at the ready.
“How many?” Briggs whispered, snapping the breach of the scattergun and dropping another slug in.
“Six,” Jameson replied. “Maybe seven.”
Briggs grunted and tapped Jameson's shoulder. They switched places before Briggs withdrew and cursed under his breath. “Open the other side, flank them.”
Jameson did so, unlocking the metal gateway and sliding it slowly aside. This side of the car was clear. He hopped down to the running board, shimmied to the back of the car, spying the first few guards in