Chapter 6 - The Trap at Track Four
Friday arrived with an eerie, freezing fog that rolled off the river like thick gray wool.
At 4:05 PM, Hawthorne Junction looked like a ghost town. The air was heavy, damp, and freezing, muffling the sound of the distant highway.
Max sat on his usual bench under the platform awning.
He wore his heavy black wool overcoat, his hands resting in his pockets. To anyone watching from the fog, he looked entirely unchanged—a stoic, solitary figure waiting for a train that never came.
Behind the rusted timber sheds on Track Four, six men moved silently through the gloom.
They carried short-barrel shotguns and suppressed pistols, moving in a tactical wedge toward the platform stairs. Frankie DeLuca, a sour-faced man with silver hair and a silk necktie, led them personally.
"He's alone," one of the shooters whispered, peering around the wooden corner. "His SUV is parked out front, but his boys are trapped behind the coal cars. The dispatcher held the freight signal just like you paid for."
DeLuca grinned, raising his weapon. "Simple job. We take him out, we take the river warehouses by Monday. Move in."
They stepped out from behind the shed onto the icy concrete of the platform.
They took three steps before a massive metal lever slammed down inside the station control tower.
CLANG-THUNK.
Suddenly, four massive halogen construction floodlights—mounted high on the water tower roof—burst into blinding, white life.
The intense beams cut through the fog like holy fire, illuminating DeLuca and his five men in a bowl of harsh, white glare.
"What the hell—!" DeLuca yelled, throwing his hand up to shield his eyes.
From the shadow of the ticket window, Cece’s voice boomed out over the station’s ancient, brass public address system—her voice amplified to a deafening roar through six horn speakers mounted along the platform.
"Attention passengers on Track Four," her voice echoed, calm, loud, and crisp. "The 4:10 coal freight has been re-routed to Track One. You are currently standing in an active firing lane."
Before DeLuca could process the words, the heavy iron side doors of the maintenance shed blew open.
Marcus and eight of Corvelli’s top lieutenants stepped out, armed with heavy automatic shotguns aimed directly at the blinded men.
Max didn't even stand up immediately.
He slowly pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with his gold lighter, and blew a thin plume of blue smoke into the freezing air. Then he stood, his broad frame towering in the floodlights.
"Frankie," Max said, his voice easily carrying across the platform over the hum of the generators. "You always were terrible at checking train schedules."
DeLuca dropped his gun onto the cold concrete, his hands flying into the air. His men followed suit within two seconds, throwing their weapons into the wet gravel as Corvelli's team moved in to secure them.
Max didn't look at DeLuca as his men dragged the rivals away toward the waiting panel vans in the rear lot.
He walked straight past them, up the iron stairs, and stepped into the station office.
Cece was standing by the old mechanical track switch, her hand still resting on the heavy iron lever that had re-routed the coal train to Track One.
Max walked up to her, his face a mix of terrifying fury and overwhelming awe.
He grabbed her face in both hands, pulling her against him so hard her breath escaped in a soft gasp.
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"You crazy, brilliant woman," Max growled against her lips, kissing her deeply, fiercely, right there in front of the flickering track monitors. "You could have been killed."
"I told you," Cece whispered against his cheek, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. "I know how transportation works."
