Bullets plowed into the man’s middle. Rip knew right away he was a Luddite, because he wore the same clothes as the ones who attacked before. Also, they had the same guns, with a Mauser semi-auto action.

The man slumped over and slid off the top of the train before he could get a shot off. The next two turned to see what had happened. Rip recognized the leader, the one closest to the engine. Wallace Biggin towered over the man now in front of him.

Rip squeezed the trigger again and a long line of spent casings flew off the train, brass fluttering away in the breeze. This fellow managed to squeeze off one round before succumbing to the .45s slamming into him. His shot flew wide, missing Rip completely, before he too fell off the train.

That left Biggin facing him, smoke from the stack blowing around the man as it streamed back. The train slowly picked up speed as it headed out of the city.

“Well, if it isn’t Big One. We meet again.”

A look of confusion crossed the man’s face.

“It’s Biggin. I told you that.”

“Come on. Nobody’s ever called you Big One? I can’t believe that.”

The confused expression morphed into contempt as Biggin took a step toward Rip.

Recalling the man was enhanced, Rip brought the Thompson up to eye level.

“Can you handle full auto this time?”

Rip squeezed the trigger and the gun burped long and loud, spitting out the rest of the drum’s rounds.

Biggin threw his arms up in front of his face, gunfire peppering his wrists and forearms. When the drum ran out, he pulled them down. Dozens of bullets stuck out of his sleeves.

“How is it that your skin’s thicker than mine?” Rip murmured as Biggin raked one arm with his fingers, scraping the lead out.

Biggin smiled again, lighting up his face. His thick head seemed too small for his enormous shoulders. Then he raced toward Rip, using a speed skill.

Rip’s eyes grew wide. He slipped into [Vampiric Speed] and ran away. Both men blurred, crossing the length of the train in an instant.

Rip stopped at the end, unwilling to jump off with Blair still onboard. He quickly swapped the Tommy gun for a reinforced Webley revolver, wishing he still had his own speed skill up while he did it.

But Biggin did not use that moment to attack. He smiled, like a man about to show his winning hand at the card tables.

“You think that can do anything?”

Rip raised an eyebrow.

“What? Oh, you mean the pistol. Yeah, yeah I do. Where I come from, this is what we call a ‘little friend.’ You won’t catch the reference, but that’s okay.”

Biggin squinted, with an expression betraying his thoughts. He looked like he decided maybe he was dealing with a madman. Soot covered his shaved blond hair, even though the smoke dissipated this far from the engine.

Then his face cleared and he smiled again. He reached for the middle of his tunic and ripped it open, tearing off the cloth and letting it flutter away in the wind.

“What is it with ripping your shirt off all the time? Is that like a calling card or something?”

“I will let you try and shoot me with that toy. Then it’s my turn.”

Rip frowned, but he pulled back the Webley’s hammer.

“You shouldn’t insult my little friend.”

He aimed for the eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The gun blammed and Biggin’s hand blurred.

He smiled at Rip, teeth flashing white out of his sooty face. Slowly, he opened his fist to show Rip the bullet. But this time, blood covered his hand.

The enhanced bullet was not there, apparently deflected by Biggin’s attempt to grab it. But it left a mark, a long furrow of flesh bleeding freely now.

“Eww. Yeah, that’s gonna leave a scar.”

Biggin stared at his hand, then up at Rip, his mouth wide open in shock.

Rip shrugged and said, “Enhanced bullets. Wanna try again?”

He squeezed off another round, aiming again for the face.

Biggin’s other hand blurred as he batted the bullet away, leaving another long gash in his palm. He burst into speed and closed the distance between them, striking before Rip could dodge with a solid blow to the face.

He grabbed Rip’s shirt before Rip could tumble off the back of the train. His bloody fist blurred as he battered Rip’s face like a boxing bag.

A small explosion sounded behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder.

Blair stood with a grappling gun, a rope leading out of it. The hook had caught in the top of his pants.

She yanked hard, pulling the bent-over Biggin off balance while Rip went down to one knee, stunned from the repeated blows.

Biggin slipped off the side, pulling the rope along with him. Blair let go of the gun and it followed him over. She ran to Rip, careful to keep her balance as the train rocked back and forth. He slumped down to lie on his stomach, his face a solid bruise.

Biggin hit the ground hard and rolled. In a burst of speed, he regained his feet and raced after the slow-moving train. He pulled up alongside the third to last car and jumped. His hands caught the edge and he pulled himself up.

He stood facing the rear, bare chest heaving. He reached behind to where the grappling hook had caught the top of his pants and pulled it out, then quickly spooled in the rope and the gun still attached.

Blair did not notice, still bent over Rip.

He walked toward her, holding the hook, the rope and gun, with an evil smile on his lips. Both hands were bloody, and a few remaining bullets peeled off his forearms.

The train picked up in speed as they steamed further out of the city.

Biggin stopped a few feet from the two, still breathing hard. Blair finally noticed him. She turned to look, standing up. Anger flashing in her eyes.

Slowly, Biggin raised both bloody hands, holding the rope she had used to pull him off the train. He smiled, with a flash of lust in his eyes.

Blair looked over his shoulder, then down to the train’s roof, as if thinking things over.

Slowly, she nodded submissively and looked up at him with round saucer eyes.

She went down to her knees, then laid down flat on her stomach. She reached both hands behind her back and waited for him to tie her up.

With a look of triumph, Biggin approached with the rope. He stooped down to tie her hands . . .

The train went under another bridge, striking the back of Biggin's head and knocking him off. He tumbled over the side and down to the ground.

This time, he did not get back up.

Blair watched the body as the train kept going, wondering if he was dead.

Somehow, she doubted it.