Blood on the Tracks by Barbara Nickless

track, moving into the approximate positions we had given them.
    “They’d better move the cars,” I said. “If Rhodes is sitting where he has a visual, he’ll either run or be waiting for us.”
    Cohen got on the radio again. Shortly, a handful of men emerged through a door and began moving the vehicles around to the north side of the building.
    Nik slid next to me, placed his hand on mine in a rare gesture of affection. “You ready for this, Sydney Rose?”
    I worked not to pull my hand away. “Whatever you need, Nik.”
    I told myself I could do this. When we landed, I would not throw up or scream or crawl on my hands and knees to the nearest shelter to hide from an enemy on the other side of the world. I would not press into the ground close enough to eat dirt, or throw myself over Clyde. I would convince my body that we were safe, and my mind would follow suit.
    Two minutes after that, we were on the ground.

C HAPTER 6
    After your buddy gets blown to bits, it’s your job to clean up whatever’s left. You busy yourself trying to find anything more than a hand and a boot so the family will have something to bury and because you don’t want to leave a fellow Marine behind.
    You work all day to find what you can, and all the while your head hurts and your gut’s locked down tight, wondering if there’s another bomb out there with your name on it.
    Then darkness falls, and you get back to the FOB with that boot and the hand and an ounce of flesh and you’re so nauseous you can’t eat and so tired you can hardly stand and the Sir tells you to shade it black.
    And you say, Yes, sir, and you look down at the gurney—at that hand and that boot and that ounce of flesh.
    And you wonder how the fuck you’re supposed to do that.
    —Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
    The Larimer County sheriff was a tall, lean man in his mid-sixties with a sunburn, a nest of crow’s-feet, and an attitude for city folk radiating off him like stink from a stockyard. He met us at the door of the abandoned factory with his feet planted and his arms folded across his narrow chest.
    “Thanks for pitching in on this,” he said to Cohen and Nik after quick introductions. He didn’t look at me. “Our men are in place. I’ve got two K9 teams here, ready to go if we need ’em. You got something the dogs can scent on?”
    “I have the suspect’s uniform,” Nik said. “And Clyde here is one of the best air scent dogs around.”
    The sheriff gave a slow “hmmm” that said, We’ll see about that , and handed me a Kevlar dog vest.
    “K9 guys thought you’d want this.”
    He pushed the vest into my hands. I felt like an ass for leaving Clyde’s vest and mine behind in our truck in Denver.
    “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
    An angry flush rose in the sheriff’s neck when his eyes met mine. He was the sort of guy who’d never taken to the idea of women pushing into the brotherhood. Probably he was wondering who I’d slept with and whether my incompetence would get one of his men shot.
    His eyes swept past me to Clyde.
    “Dog looks a little sick. Not much for chopper rides?”
    Heat rose in my own face. “He’s fine, sir.”
    “You’re not looking so peachy yourself.”
    “Happens when I encounter an asshole. I’ll feel better soon.”
    “Why you little—”
    Cohen’s mouth twitched.
    Nik jumped in. “As soon as the train starts to slow down,” he said, “your men should be prepared for Rhodes to jump.”
    The sheriff ripped his gaze from me, taking skin with it.
    “Miles ahead of you, Lasko,” he said. “State troopers have set up as much of a perimeter as they can. Kinda like trying to lasso a bronco with a piece of string and a whistle.” He nodded his chin toward the distant horizon where clouds hung, fat with snow. “We got a big storm coming. We don’t catch your guy in the next couple of hours, we’ll have to shut down before our asses are hanging in the wind.”
    He gave us radios, told us what frequency to use,