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I walk back to her, placing my hand on her shoulder to provide assurance. “In the worst-case scenario, we can have Nikolai come back with more fuel. All we have to do is get to Texas.”
She nods, and I take her back inside the train, ordering my men to go out and hook up the fuel and start pumping. It’s going to take at least twenty minutes to pump that much fuel manually, but we don’t have any other choice.
“I’ll go look at the fuel tank and try to find the leak while they’re pumping the fuel,” I mutter as I guide Lola back onto the train.
“Do you want me to come look with you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s too cold for you and the baby out there. You need to stay inside.”
“That’s awfully considerate of you,” she says, looking slightly doubtful but pleased by my thoughtfulness.
“I’m not a monster.”
She laughs a bit. “You’re allowed to be, so long as it’s not directed at me.”
A bit of tension melts of my shoulders, and I take her hand into mine, squeezing it lightly. “Then I’m your monster, Lola. And I’m going to tear apart anyone who dares even look your way.”
“Seems… excessive,” she replies, but her eyes say something else entirely.
I smirk. “Excessive is what I’m best at.”
The air between us becomes magnetized, but I’m forced to tear myself away from her instead of tearing the clothes off her body. I swear that when we get to Texas, I’m not holding back. I’m going to have her again and again…
And again.
Our fingertips linger together for a moment as I step away. Leaving Lola is always difficult, but now it’s pure agony having to swap the soft warmth of her body for the unforgiving cold.
I’d better make this quick.
The compacted snow crunches under my feet as I retrace my steps back to the fuel tank. My men already have it hooked up with the hose, pumping fresh fuel into the large metal chamber that holds our dwindling supply.
I turn the flashlight on my phone on, peeking under the side of the train to get a look at the bottom. I’m mainly looking for moisture or dampness on the tracks. That would indicate a leak, and it would also tell me how heavy it is.
At first, it’s difficult to make sense of the intricate metal underside of the train. There are so many rods, pipes, and bolts that it would take an expert to locate something out of place, but after a moment, I realize that there’s a slow drip coming from the center of the tank.
So, there is a leak, but it’s not major. It might even be something that we could patch up, given the right tools. The problem is that the only tools we have on this train do the opposite of patch holes. They put holes in things, preferably people we disagree with.
I tap the fuel tank a few times with the side of my phone, but the drip remains steady. I don’t think it’s going to get worse, but I’m starting to regret not asking Nikolai to send my fuel. We could’ve filled the tank up all the way, even if it slowed us down by another ten minutes. A little extra time is much better than getting stuck twenty miles from home with the entire Italian Mafia on our ass.
I sigh, pulling myself out from under the train and looking toward the fuel container that was left for us. It’s already a quarter of the way empty, which means we’re on track to get this train filled and back on the move in another fifteen minutes.
I clap my hands, the sound echoing through the bleak, frozen terrain. “Keep it going. We can’t afford to slow down,” I belt.
My men move like one big machine, holding the pipe in place and pumping the fuel together. When one grows tired, the next in line takes over to keep the pace as quick as possible.
I take a moment to admire the efficiency of the capable men I handpicked to come along on this journey. If I had known I’d be transporting even more precious cargo than I had previously assumed, I would’ve brought eh entire force with me.
But the men I have are formidable, and together, we should be able to handle what Lorenzo and his goons throw at us. They haven’t had time to prepare for this. Whatever they spring on us won’t be as well organized as they would like.
It’s contest to see who can scramble together the best fighters together on a moment’s notice, and I still have the edge. Even with the slow drip of the fuel tank acting like an hourglass to diminish my advantage, I believe we can make it to Texas with the train, the heirloom, and most importantly, Lola.
21
Lola
Jasha swings back into the train like he’s taking it for a joyride, a crooked smile painted on his face like a Halloween mask. I know it’s fake, but he tries to play it cool and fool me with it anyway.
“Everything’s good,” he says cheerfully. “All filled up and ready to roll.”
