Next Stop: Revenge

***

He was vaguely aware he was moving.

His head was being jostled side to side.

He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy.

‘Focus,’ he thought. ‘Make your body obey. That’s what you were taught. There is no situation you can’t get out of. Rely on your training. The Company spent a lot of money making it so you can get yourself out of situations like this.’

He brought his thoughts to a single, laser-focused point, just past his perception of his nose. He imagined the singularity moving through his awareness, and into his body. Within a moment, he was able to regain some sensation in his eyelids.

As his eyelids cracked, he was greeted with a dim room. His vision was crossed and blurry, but he could barely make out the dull gray seat in front of him. There were handholds bolted to the top, and an odd-looking clip riveted to the center of the seatback.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

He became aware of a steady, rhythmic noise; it was permeating the room he was in.

Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.

With great effort, he shook his head, trying to clear out the rest of the cobwebs that seemed to have tangled his thoughts.

Finally, after a few more moments of blinking and shaking his head, his vision cleared entirely, and he was able to make out the details of the room he was in: gray seats, stainless steel walls, scuffed double-pane windows.

He was the sole passenger, as far as he could tell. He looked around, shifting in his seat and looking behind him. The entire room he was in was empty.

He turned his attention to the window to his left, staring out into the dull light.

Judging by the quality of the light, it seemed to be early evening. The scenery through the window was moving, although it was not moving very quickly.

‘I’m on some kind of train, I think. How would I have gotten here?’

He stood, shaky on his feet. His entire body felt lethargic, almost like his muscles had all begun to atrophy; like he had been confined to a bed for years and had lost control of his body. He pumped his arms, and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his neck, sending a slight shiver down his spine.

‘Better,’ he thought.

He leaned toward the window, placing his hand on top of the frame. He peered out into the semi-darkness. From what he could make out, he was moving through some kind of field. Poles had been erected at regular intervals, and wires draped from one pole to the next.

‘They have to be power lines,’ he thought, ‘which means I’m probably traveling on some established train route. The real question, though, is where am I going?’

He pushed off the window and turned toward the interior of the train. He needed to take stock of the items he had in his possession.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The left pocket was empty, save for some lint. The right pocket held his lighter. He flicked the lighter open and spun the flint wheel. The flame sprung to life immediately, casting a warm, orange glow. He snapped the lighter shut and dropped it back into his pocket. He turned his attention to his jacket. The two bottom pockets were empty, but the inner pocket still held his badge and ID. He flipped the commission case open and looked down at his US Marshal star and ID card.

His ID showed his picture, along with his Marshal identification number.

John Buckley, ID # 84217.

Memories flooded in. His time spent as an operative in the CIA. Training at Camp Peary– affectionately known as The Farm. His eventual transfer to the Marshal Service. His apartment in Alexandria. Spending his days hunting down federal fugitives, transporting assets into WITSEC, and even transporting federal prisoners.

His hand instinctively went to the bead chain necklace that held his day-to-day star. It was tucked into his shirt, as always. It felt like an anchor in a world that seemed to have come unmoored.

‘Well, at least I still have my star and ID;’ his hand fell to his waist, contacting the empty holster where his Glock 23 should have been clipped to his belt, ‘no gun, though. Shit.’

John knelt, pulling up his right pant leg, knowing he usually kept a backup piece strapped to his ankle. His backup Sig Sauer P938 was still in its place.

Phew. At least something was going right.

He drew the Sig and checked the load. The 7-round extended capacity magazine was still full, plus the 1 chambered round. 8 shots total. Better than nothing.

He thumbed the pistol to “safe”, and let his right pointer finger come to rest just above the trigger. He let the pistol drop to his side. He looked around the train car, trying to work out which way to head. The logical choice was to head toward the engine. Then again, whoever brought him here would likely expect him to make his way to the front of the train. He tapped the muzzle against his leg, thinking.

No, first he would explore the other cars, then he would make his way to the engine. What he still couldn’t work out was how he went from his apartment in Alexandria to an unknown train heading to an unknown destination. There was a gaping hole in his memory.

Well, standing in a train car thinking about it wasn’t going to help him.

John brought the pistol into a relaxed low-ready position and began to walk toward the door to his right. The train, given what he saw out the window, was moving toward his left; he figured the rear of the train would be in the opposite direction of travel.

He stopped at the door to the next train and pulled the pistol up into a higher ready position, compressing his weapon to his chest. He grabbed the handle of the door, and, pressing himself to the side, slid the door into its hideaway slot.

John peeked through the door.

The junction between cars was empty.

He stepped carefully into the vestibule, pulling the door closed behind him. He slid the next door open–

–coming face to face with a woman.

Her eyes went wide, and her hands shot up. Her right hand held a Ka-Bar in a reverse grip.

“Holy shit!” she shouted, “Don’t shoot!” Her fingers shot up; she held the knife pinched between her thumb and palm.

John let his arms drop, taking on a low-ready position again, before letting go of the weapon with his left hand.

“Easy,” he said, reaching out to help steady her, “sorry about that. Are you alright?”

The woman took a deep breath, and stumbled back a couple of steps. She grabbed the seat behind her to steady herself. She sunk down into it, breathing heavily.

John watched the knife, all the while trying to take in more details about the mysterious woman.

She was about 5’ 7”, brunette hair pulled back into a hastily-done ponytail, and athletically built. She wore slim, but not skin tight, jeans, and a green plaid shirt. The shirt was buttoned about halfway down, revealing a black tank top. A pair of dog tags rested just above the button of the plaid shirt. A pair of tan Bates combat boots pushed the cuffs of her jeans up, causing them to come to rest at the top of the laces.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“You scared the shit out of me,” the woman said, “I didn’t know anyone else was on this train. When I woke up, I was all alone in that car back there–” she gestured over her left shoulder, “–and the only thing I could find was this knife. It was laying on the seat in front of me.”

“Sounds familiar,” John said, “I woke up in the car behind me. The only things I had on me were my lighter, badge, and my backup piece.”

“Badge? Are you some kind of cop?”

“U.S. Marshal. Name is John.”

“I’m Natalie.”

“Do you know what is going on?” John asked, looking around the car they were standing in. It looked the same as all the rest, and was completely devoid of luggage, or anything else.

“No,” Natalie said, “the last thing I remember was walking home from work. Next thing I know, I’m on this train.”

John crossed his arms, tucking his pistol under his arm. So, this Natalie got snagged on her way home from work, and he had been taken from his apartment. Even the circumstances didn’t line up.

“I was going to check the other cars. Where were you heading?” John asked.

“I figured the engine car was my best bet,” Natalie said, glancing at the door behind John. “I figured it was that way.”

“Probably,” John said. He considered for a moment, then said: “I think we might do better to stay together.”

Natalie knit her brows. She dropped her eyes toward the floor and went silent. After a moment, she nodded. She stood, and flipped her knife back into the reverse grip she’d used earlier. John moved past her toward the rear of the car they were in. He brought his Sig back into its ready position, motioning for Natalie to fall in behind him. She quietly fell in step behind him, hugging the side of the car. On some level, John registered that she must have some kind of tactical training.

John reached forward and opened the door. He made his way into the vestibule, and, as before, opened the adjoining door.

The car Natalie claimed to have woken up in looked exactly like all the rest.

Empty.

Lifeless.

Barren.

The pair moved through the car, and moved through the doorway.

***

Fifteen minutes later, John and Natalie found themselves at the first locked door they’d encountered. Unlike the rest, this door had a window in it, and was secured by a backlit keypad.

He looked at Natalie, tilting his head toward the keypad. She shrugged; there was no real way for either of them to know what the passcode was.

"Well, the caboose is a dead end," Natalie said, she stepped forward and peered into the window on the door. Past it, nothing moved. She moved out of the way, gesturing toward John to take a look.

He moved to the window and peered in. Inside, there was what looked like a server room. Inside, wires were neatly bound and attached to large black cases. Each of the cases had a small bank of lights on the front, flickering rapidly.

"What the hell is this for?" John mused.

"I don't know," Natalie said, "but, without the passcode, we aren't getting in."

The two turned, making their way back out of the vestibule.

***

By the time Natalie and John had made it about three-quarters through the train, they had stopped tactically moving through each of the doors. They hadn’t encountered anyone else on the train, so the added caution had begun to make them feel foolish.

As they walked, John felt his frustration starting to grow. What the hell was the point of putting them on this train if it was empty? Why strip them of their belongings - save a few hidden-away things - and snatch them out of their lives?

Natalie opened the next door, revealing - surprise, surprise - a passenger car just like all the rest.

Well, almost.

All the seats had been stripped out of this car, leaving nothing but the bare framework of a train car.

“What the hell is this?” John asked.

“This is weird,” Natalie said.

Laying on the floor in the center of the room was a tablet, protective case flipped across the screen.

Natalie moved forward and knelt, retrieving the tablet. She flipped the cover open, and the screen brightened. Oddly, there was no lock screen; the tablet opened directly to a home screen with one app placed directly in the middle. It was an app icon neither John nor Natalie had seen before: it looked like an orange traffic cone with two “reflective” silver bands wrapped around it.

Natalie looked at John, a question going unspoken.

John shrugged.

Natalie tapped the icon, and the screen changed. A black screen appeared with a translucent sideways triangle.

“Some kind of video?” she mumbled, her attention focused on the screen.

Somewhere, deep down, John began to feel a sense of foreboding; it was almost as if he knew the video contained something important.

Natalie’s finger moved toward the play button, and the feeling John was experiencing only seemed to increase. Inexplicably, he didn’t want Natalie to push the button.

“Natalie, maybe we should-”

But she had already tapped the button.

On the screen, the video started, showing the top of what appeared to be an empty computer chair, which seemed odd, especially if the video was filmed through a webcam. Abruptly, a figure appeared in front of the camera. Their face was soaked in sweat, and their hair was matted, but it was obvious who it was.

Natalie.

John’s eyes widened as he stared at the video.

“What the fuck?” Natalie murmured, her eyes growing wide, too.

The sweat-soaked Natalie on the screen appeared to be breathing heavily. She inhaled, and looked into the camera.

“Hi, Natalie,” the face on the tablet said, her mouth pulling into a half smile, “I’m assuming, if you’re watching this, you’ve woken up on a mysterious train car with nothing in your pockets, and a Ka-Bar laying on the seat in front of you. You’re probably wondering why you’re here. Well, the answer to that is: you did this to yourself.”

Natalie tapped the screen, freezing the video: “What the hell?”

Her hands had begun to shake.

John was just as shocked as she was. He gently took the tablet from her hands and tapped the play button again.

The on-screen Natalie continued: “I know this will come as a surprise, especially now. You have no recollection of getting on this train, and no idea why you’re here in the first place.

You decided to undergo this procedure for one specific reason: to get close to John.”

At this, John’s eyes widened even further, “what?”

“John Buckley is a U.S. Marshal, and the one who was responsible for your wife’s arrest. And her murder. Jenna was arrested on suspicion of trafficking weapons to some high-value federal targets. That’s bullshit,” Digital Natalie’s voice was colored with scorn, “but the Marshals (she practically spat the word) didn’t seem to care. They still breached our home, blowing the door completely off the hinges. They rushed in, shoving their weapons in our faces, shouting for us to get down and put our hands behind our backs.

John knelt on Jenna’s back, smashing her into the floor and wretched her arms behind her back, even though she had already complied. He put the zip cuffs on so tight she complained of her hands going numb. Again, the Marshals - specifically John - didn’t seem to care. They just ‘secured the prisoner’ and dragged her to her feet. Even as you tried to follow, John shoved her into the back of a black SUV and sped off, absconding with your wife to some torture-heavy black site.

For months, you heard nothing. But then, one day out of the blue, some Marshal arrived at your door. Lo and behold, it was the very same one who had dragged your wife away in the first place: Marshal John Buckley.

Rather than bring your wife home, though, Marshal Buckley had the worst kind of news: Jenna had perished during interrogation. ‘An underlying heart defect’, he said. What a crock of shit. They - he - tortured your wife to death. So, you decided to get even. You changed your hair. Got facial fillers. Plastic surgery to change the shape of your nose and eyes. You became unrecognizable. But you couldn’t get rid of the anger you felt every time you tried to approach him. It ate at you. Threatened to destroy everything you had planned. So, you decided that you needed to remove your memory of what he did. What he took.

So, you enlisted your brother to administer this,” virtual Natalie held up a syringe. The plunger was pulled almost all the way back - a massive dose of whatever chemicals were in the barrel. “This is a combination of diazepam and thorazine, and this,” she held up her left hand, which showed an IV tube placed in her cephalic vein, “is an IV of midazolam. When Joseph starts the IV drip and injects this cocktail, it will induce retrograde amnesia. You’ll remember your name, and all your skills, but it will remove the memories of what the Marshals did to Jenna.

You hired a few gangbangers to drug John and put him on the train you’d acquired. He got a much lower dose of the cocktail than you did, but he should be drawing a blank on why he’s on the train. With your new appearance, he should have no idea who you are; you should be able to gain John’s trust. To share a mysterious situation with him. To get close to him. By hearing this, you should be regaining your memories. If that’s the case…you know what you need to do. Good luck, Natalie.”

The screen froze, leaving the image of Digital Natalie staring intently into the camera.

John and Natalie were silent for a moment, each remembering the incident Digital Natalie had just described. As much as he wanted to, John couldn’t refute anything she said. No matter what, it didn’t change that the “advanced interrogation techniques” had resulted in Jenna’s death. It didn’t matter that she was a suspected arms dealer. It didn’t matter that there were mountains of evidence to tie her to Hamas, Hizballah, al-Qa’ida, and ISIS. None of that would change the fact that the CIA had interrogated Jenna until her heart gave out, and that John was the Marshal tasked with notifying the next of kin.

John turned, saying: “Natalie, listen. I -”

His sentence was cut off by a cold, sharp pain in his abdomen. He looked down, trying to process the cause of the icicle in his gut, and he saw the guard of the Ka-Bar bunching his shirt. His mouth dropped open, and he tried to speak, but Natalie pulled the knife out with a sickening sucking noise. He felt her hand go to his shoulder, and felt the knife tear into him again. He grabbed her shoulders for support, his knees going weak. He stared into her eyes, searching for some shred of compassion.

What he saw instead was the hardened, dark coal of hatred. Natalie pulled the knife out, flipped it to a reverse grip, and stabbed it viciously into his kidney.

John became aware that he was screaming.

Became aware of the white-hot lines of fire in his abdomen, and the icy chill of 1095 in his kidney.

Over and over, he felt the steel of the Ka-Bar puncture his skin.

Felt the warm, sticky sensation of blood flowing down his legs.

Felt the fog in his head from blood loss.

His grip slipped.

He collapsed to the floor.

Natalie stood over him, the Ka-Bar dripping fat, thick drops of his life off the blade. She was breathing heavily, and covered in low velocity spatter. The look of hatred in her eyes had shifted. It was no longer a burning stare; rather, it was the calm acceptance that she had accomplished her goal. It was contempt toward him for the role he played in her wife’s death. It was satisfaction that he was bleeding out in the empty train car.

Natalie dropped the knife on John’s chest. She knelt near his head, staring into his eyes until the light faded, leaving nothing except an empty husk laying in a pool of blood.

She stood, and moved to the door at the far end of the train car. She entered the engine car and sank into the conductor's seat. She sat for a moment, letting her heart rate descend toward normal.

When her heart rate had calmed, she reached forward to the throttle control. She pressed it forward, speeding the train down the track to her extraction point.