Metal screamed against metal as the train hurtled down the tracks. Caine swayed as the train car shook and rattled beneath him. 

The interior of the blue and white passenger car was cramped, and there was barely enough room for him to walk between the rows of seats. The temperature outside was close to ninety degrees, and the fans mounted on the ceiling did little to stir the thick, humid air within the long metal box. 

Flexing his knees to maintain his balance, he glanced out the window. The scenery streaking by was stunning… Rolling green hills hugged a crystal-clear lake. And beyond the emerald fields, the craggy gray rocks of the Himalayas rose to kiss the sky, their peaks dusted white with snow. Known as ‘India’s Alps’, the Kashmir Valley boasted some of the most beautiful countryside Caine had ever seen. 

But he wasn’t here for the view. He was operational, on mission. Death was in the cards, either his target’s or his own. There was no time for sightseeing. 

A low mist hung above the verdant ground rushing by, dulling the sun’s heat. But despite the cloud cover, the temperature continued to rise. The other passengers shifted in their seats, wiping beads of perspiration from their brows with handkerchiefs or napkins. 

Brushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his face, Caine continued moving toward the front of the train. The passenger car lurched and shimmied as it sped over the tracks. He gripped the nearest seat, bracing himself as the violent motion nearly threw him into an elderly woman’s lap. 

She looked up at him. The crinkles around her eyes smiled as she adjusted her lavender ghoongat headscarf, pulling the gauzy material away from her face. 

Grinning, she patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry, young man. We will cross into the Kashmir Valley soon. The tracks are smoother across the bridge.’ 

Caine returned her smile and nodded back. ‘Thanks. Guess I’m a bit of a nervous traveler.’

 The woman shrugged. ‘Who can blame you in these times? Still, what will be will be, yes?’

 Caine turned his head, watching as the man ahead of him approached the door to the next car. He pressed a large metal button mounted next to the door, and it slid open with a pneumatic whoosh. The train was an older model and relied on compressed air rather than electronics to control the doors. The button merely released a latch, allowing the door to slide open on its own. 

Caine looked back at the woman. ‘Can’t argue with that. Shubh yatra… Good journey.’ 

He continued down the narrow aisle running between the seats. As he reached the end, he peered through the dusty window set in the small metal door. 

The space between cars was empty. The man he was following had entered the next car.

Caine pressed the button. The door slid open, and the roar of the train grew louder. The clattering of the wheels against the tracks echoed around him, making it nearly impossible to hear anything else. 

He closed the door behind him and peered through the window of the next car. Sure enough, he saw his quarry, still moving toward the front of the train. The man’s pale blue kurta robe billowed behind him as he hurried to the next door. 

Caine hung back, watching as the man exited the car. 

‘Blue Heron to Nest,’ Caine said, speaking louder than usual. He knew the micro receiver unit in his ear could pick up the vibrations of his voice, even when he was whispering, but he wasn’t sure if the tiny microphone’s noise-canceling software would be able to filter out the train’s racket. 

‘This is Nest,’ a woman’s voice said, echoing deep in his ear canal. There was a burst of static, and Caine dipped his head, struggling to hear. 

‘Come again, Nest,’ he said, glancing back to make sure no one else was approaching the door. ‘I did not copy, over.’ 

‘What is Flamingo’s status, over?’ the voice asked, repeating her earlier question. Static still crackled over the line, but Caine recognized the speaker as Sandra Basu, an analyst who worked for Rebecca Freeling, the D/NCS at Langley. 

‘I need you to double-check your intel,’ Caine said. ‘Flamingo did not get off at the last stop. Repeat, Flamingo is still on board.’ 

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Sandra said, her voice growing flustered. Caine heard more static, then the sound of her fingers tapping on keys. ‘According to our source, Yasir Azhar was meeting with a representative of Lashkar-e-Taiba. Intel says they plan to work together to detonate an explosive device somewhere in the Kashmir region, to destabilize⁠—’ 

‘Yeah, I know that’s what your source said,’ Caine snapped, cutting her off. ‘I’m the one who retrieved the intel, remember? But I’m telling you, I’ve had eyes on Azhar this whole time, and he hasn’t set foot off the train. So either the source was lying, or⁠—’ 

‘Or Azhar’s plans have changed,’ Sandra interrupted. ‘Give me a minute. I’m scanning India’s internal agency chatter. Maybe they know something we don’t.’ 

‘Copy,’ Caine replied, glancing back through the dusty window of the car ahead of him. Azhar was gone. ‘Target is on the move, and I can’t talk in the open.’ 

‘Copy… What train are you on again?’ 

'Just a minute,’ Caine said, fishing a crumpled ticket from his pocket. His eyes scanned the mass of text. ‘Vande Bharat Express,’ he said. ‘It’s the one that goes over the Chenab Bridge.’ 

He gritted his teeth as he heard more keys tapping. 

Lashkar-e-Taiba was a militant group added to the United Nations terror sanction list in 2005. Deadly extremists, they had been linked to violence in the Kashmir region for years, as well as brutal attacks in Mumbai, Bahawalpur, and other regions of both India and Pakistan. 

Yasir Azhar, the man Caine was following, was an explosives expert. A bomb-maker. He was also a former member of the Jamaat-ul-Mujahideen Bangladesh, more commonly known as the JMB. The Indian government had recently cracked down on the Islamic terror group, whose stated purpose was to establish an Islamic state in Bangladesh. They intended to do this through violent attacks on institutions of learning, science, liberalism, and anything else that clashed with their views of the world. After several of their terror cells in India were rooted out and shut down, word on the street was, Azhar went freelance. Now, he was apparently working with the Pakistan-based group.

Or at least that was what Caine had thought when he followed the man onto the train. Now, as Sandra confirmed, Azhar’s plans seemed to have changed. 

Maybe they aborted the mission, Caine thought. Or chose a secondary objective. But why? 

Caine thought back. Had he slipped up? Was it possible he’d been spotted by the target? 

There was no way to be sure, of course, but he didn’t think so. He had followed Azhar for hours, with no sign of discovery. It was only when the train stopped at the Bakkal station that the man had become jumpy, nervous. 

‘This is Nest,’ Sandra said, her voice returning to his ear. ‘Do you copy?’ 

‘Go ahead,’ he replied. 

‘Well, you’re right. Our contact at the station said he didn’t see Azhar’s contacts show up either. He must have called off the meet. And I think I know why.’ 

‘Let me guess,’ Caine said, glancing up at the window. ‘There’s an IB operative onboard.’

Sandra sucked in her breath, surprised by Caine’s observation. ‘Yes, exactly. How did you know? Did you spot them on the train?’ 

Before Caine could answer, a series of loud cracks echoed from the front of the train, followed by muffled screams. 

Gunshots, Caine thought. Glancing through the window, he saw a mob of passengers flooding the aisle of the next car, pushing and shoving toward the door. 

‘Lucky guess,’ Caine muttered, reaching into the sling bag hanging from his shoulder. He drew his Beretta PX-4 Storm Compact pistol and flicked the safety off. 

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, stepping away from the door as the panicked crowd surged closer. ‘Stand by.’
______________________________

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