‘Everyone in this car was with me,’ Scarber announced smugly. ‘We booked every seat.’
‘Oh. Glad I bought shares in Japan Rail, then,’ Eddie replied, his affected nonchalance rapidly fading. The remaining ‘passengers’ headed for the exits at each end of the carriage, presumably to stop anyone from passing through while Scarber’s people completed their work. ‘Be a bit hard for you to hide a body with a bullet hole in it for another hour, though.’
‘Don’t worry, kiddo, we thought of that.’ She nodded to the man beside Eddie, who cautiously holstered his weapon — the other gunman pointedly raising his SD9 towards Eddie’s face to discourage him from trying anything — and took out a shiny metal tube with a nozzle on one end. ‘Gas injector,’ Scarber explained. ‘No needle marks, no noise, and you’ll be dead in twenty seconds. We get off at Nagoya, and by the time someone tries to wake you up at the end of the line we’ll be out of the country.’
‘Well, hoo-fucking-ray for Japanese politeness,’ said Eddie. Blocked in, with the man across the table covering him, he could neither fight nor run. ‘Do I at least get to finish my ciggy?’ He raised it to his mouth.
Scarber shook her head. ‘Those things’ll kill you.’ She gestured to the first goon, who turned in his seat to face the Englishman, bringing up the gas injector—
Eddie spat the cigarette into his eye.
Sparks flew, the blinded man screeching and clapping a hand to his face — and Eddie yanked him over the armrest. The startled agent opposite found his line of fire blocked by his partner.
The anguished operative was still clutching the injector. Eddie clamped a fist round his hand and twisted it to jam the nozzle up against the goon’s jaw. There was a sharp hiss. The man’s shrieks turned to pure horror as he realised his death was just seconds away.
But the same would be true for Eddie if he couldn’t get clear…
He bodily shoved the dying man across the table, then snatched at a lever on his chair. The first-class seat slammed into its reclined position as Eddie threw himself back against it. The other man stood to bring his gun above his spasming partner — only to have the Smith & Wesson kicked from his hand as his target rolled backwards.
Eddie crashed down in the next set of seats and scrambled to his feet. He had to get out of the carriage — the presence of witnesses would drastically limit Scarber and her men’s actions. He leapt into the aisle, about to sprint for the door at the end of the coach—
It opened. Another suited Asian man came through, gun raised.
Eddie dived across the aisle as he fired. A dull thump of lead against flesh and a choked scream came from behind him. The man beside Scarber had moved to retrieve his gun, only to take the bullet in his chest.
Another shot smacked into the seat back above Eddie. The new arrival was charging down the carriage for a clear shot. He needed a weapon. The dead goon’s gun had landed on the seats across from Scarber’s table. Eddie flung himself over the row of chairs. Another shot hissed overhead as he landed heavily.
The gun! Where was it?
He looked frantically about, hearing footsteps rapidly closing.
If it had fallen under the seats, he was doomed—
There, against an armrest. He snapped it up, firing blind over the seats. The running man ducked for cover.
Eddie jumped back into the aisle. Scarber was still in her seat, but had hooked her gun with one outstretched foot and was reaching under the table for it.
He pointed the SD9 at her and pulled the trigger—
It clicked. Empty.
Scarber nevertheless flinched as if she had received an electric shock. A brief exchange of hostile glares, then Eddie vaulted the dead man and ran for the rear of the carriage. ‘Get Jun and kill that bastard!’ Scarber shouted.
The door automatically slid open as he approached. He darted into the boarding compartment. Two sets of doors ahead marked the connecting passage between this coach and the next — and through the glass he saw another man hurrying towards him.
Nowhere to go. The outer doors were sealed, controlled by the shinkansen’s crew and only opening when the train was stationary.
But there was another door, a ‘no entry’ sign on it. He shoulder-barged it, but the lock held firm. The man was almost at the connecting passage.
Another slam—
The door burst open. Eddie fell into a cramped guard’s compartment, hip barking against a shelf-like desk on the back wall. A telephone was fitted above it, but there was no time to call anyone for help. He shut the door, jamming the handle with the empty gun.
Not that it mattered, as the compartment was too small to provide any cover. All the gunman had to do was fire through the door. He looked about in desperation. Nothing he could use for protection, no panels in the walls or floor—
A small hatch in the ceiling.
Eddie didn’t know where it led, or care. He scrambled on to the little desk and tugged at the hatch’s inset handle. If it was locked, he was dead. The handle rattled, but didn’t move.
Noises outside. The door juddered, clanking against the wedged gun. A kick, then another, harder. The panel around the catch buckled.
He gripped the handle with both hands, his entire weight on it. Metal creaked. A third strike from outside—
Something inside the hatch snapped — and it dropped open, wind screaming into the cubicle. Eddie grabbed the frame above and pulled himself up.
On to the bullet train’s roof.
The slipstream mashed him against the opening’s rear edge with hurricane force. In the darkness the shinkansen’s white-painted carriages were little more than dim blocks shrinking into the distance ahead and behind, the only illumination the glow of the train’s internal lights on the concrete trackside — and the dazzling blue flashes of electrical sparks where a pantograph arm touched the overhead high-tension cables.
The roof was smooth except for a pair of parallel ribs running its length, about two feet apart. Eddie lay flat between them, palms and toes pushing against the low aluminium ridges, and crawled forward. Moving towards the train’s rear would be far easier, but it would leave him completely exposed, whereas the pantograph’s raised base was just a few metres ahead. Getting over it would give him some protection against bullets.
However small.
The exposed top of his head stung and prickled as dust and grit snatched up by the train’s wake hit him at the takeoff speed of a 747. He kept moving. Even though the pantograph’s base was streamlined, it still disrupted the airflow, blasting a swirling tornado into Eddie’s face as he got closer. He had to turn his head and bury his chin into his shoulder just to draw a breath.
Movement behind — a man emerging from the lit rectangle of the hatch.
The sight of the agent galvanised him. He scrambled along the roof like a gecko, the airflow trying to tear him off with every movement. Another sharp stab as something hit him above one eye, then he reached the pantograph and pulled himself over its base, careful to avoid the arm itself—
A gunshot!
He flattened himself against the roof, not sure how the gunman had missed from such close range. Another shot — but still he didn’t feel the agonising slam and burn of a bullet impact. He grabbed the rooftop ribs again and pulled himself onwards, risking a look back. A flash from the power line revealed the agent halfway out of the hatch, anger clear even through the force of the wind on his face.