The door to Dobson’s cell shuddered open for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. An officer decked in worn brown duds lingered on the other side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced cautiously from left to right before shuffling inside, head tucked into his thin shoulders, as if expecting an ambush. The man in question was Deputy Clyde Boyd, Sheriff Strife’s second-in-command. The deputy was jumpier than usual. A small feat in itself, considering Boyd was already antsier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of guillotine-style rocking chairs.

  Dobson’s gaze swept past Deputy Boyd, uninterested, and settled on the inmate in his custody.

  The small, mousy woman stuck out like a sore thumb in a prison line-up. Everything about her was wrong. She had smooth, sun-kissed skin, compassionate brown eyes, and a warm smile. On first glance, one would have assumed she was in the wrong place. The woman’s sweet demeanor insisted she belonged on a farmstead, raising chickens, not on a train barreling deep underground headed for a prison mining colony. The shackles cinched securely around her waist, chaining her from wrist to ankle, told a different story, however. The sheriff didn’t break out the belly chains unless an inmate had truly gone above and beyond to piss him off.

  Dobson’s stomach dropped, silently cursing her luck.

  Sheriff Strife had made good on his threat. This wasn’t some mere lowlife thug. The demure woman standing before her was Mad Misty herself, queen of the cutthroats. Dobson knew not to be fooled by Misty’s air of homespun innocence. It was all part of her act. The woman may have looked like she belonged in a homey kitchen, pulling hot apple pie from the oven, but Misty’s reputation warned that any desserts in her possession came laced with a tincture of arsenic.

  “Inmate Dobson.” Deputy Boyd’s voice caught in his throat with a flutter. Eye bulging, the deputy frantically gestured to the mousy woman beside him, choking on his words. “Meet your new cellmate, Misty McClain.”

  “Oh, don’t you fuss over the introductions, Mister Boyde.” Misty’s drawl elongated every other vowel as if it were a neglected child in need of a doting mother’s affection. “Dobsy and I are well acquainted.”

  Dobson and McClain were indeed familiar, in the same way the coyote was familiar with the rattlesnake. Both were predators, each equipped with specialized hunting techniques. Dobson and Misty had learned to coexist in the same professional circle by actively avoiding one another. They’d kept to their own territories, always careful to give the other a wide berth when traveling. For the first and possibly last time, Dobson found herself face-to-face with an adversary with a rap sheet as impressive as her own.

  Hell’s bells! This was how she was going to die. One, if not both of them, would be dead before the train reached the mining colony. Forget plotting a daring getaway, all of Dobson’s energy would be spent ensuring she survived the next twelve hours. Dobson cursed Sheriff Strife to hell and back for ruining her escape before it even happened.

  Misty’s sugary-sweet voice drew Dobson from her troubled thoughts. “How’ve you been, pumpkin?”

  There were only two types of people with the gall to call someone Dobson’s size something so demeaning: idiots and exceptionally talented mercenaries. It was a shame Dobson already knew to which of the two categories Misty belonged. She traded Misty’s cheerful smile for a purposefully blank expression, refusing to give her new cellmate the satisfaction of a reaction. “Stuck wondering what rhymes with orange.”

  “Seatbelt.”

  Dobson shook her head. “That does not rhyme with orange.”

  “No, silly goose. As in, put yours on. Safety first and all that.” Misty’s bubbly laugh filled the cell, reverberating against the reinforced metal siding. The accompanying wink said far more than did her words. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Dobsy. Admit it. You’re thrilled to have some real company for a change.”

  Grateful was not the word Dobson would have chosen. Slightly intrigued, perhaps. Alarmed, yes. Concerned whether or not she was destined to survive the next twelve hours, most definitely. Underneath the veneer of easy smiles and honeyed words, Mad Misty McClain was a viper in a prairie skirt.

  The steady clickity-clack thunder of the wheels lurched without warning, throwing Deputy Boyd off kilter. Helpless, he staggered sideways into Misty. The cutthroat queen played her part well. “Oh, mercy me!” She cried out in surprise, her hands brushing against Boyd’s utility belt as she helped him regain his balance. “Mister Boyde, are you alright?”

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  “I’m fine!” Deputy Boyd shied away, eager to reestablish a safe distance between them.

  Dobson focused on Misty’s hands. Hand was perhaps too generous a description for the crude pincer prosthetic currently serving as Misty’s left appendage. The previous bionic model had been confiscated for safety reasons, no doubt. Dobson’s gaze shifted from Misty’s hand to her tattered jumpsuit, noting the soiled sleeves. The dried blood was unsurprising, expected even, given Misty’s fickle temperament. But there was something else as well, a black, oily substance that smelled of leather and iron shavings.

  “Is that engine grease?” Dobson asked.

  “Dreadful stuff,” Misty confirmed with a bob of her head. “Stains your fingers and clothes something fierce if you’re not careful.”

  Deputy Boyd’s tanned face flushed red with irritation, his temper triggered by something Misty said. “Alright, enough talk. You have the rest of the journey to play catch-up.” His voice trembled as he spoke, trying and failing to project an air of authority. “Over to the bench, Inmate McClain.”

  His attempts failed, naturally. And both inmates remained woefully unimpressed.

  “You’ll have to excuse Mister Boyd’s temper. He’s still a bit sore with me,” Misty said to Dobson. “I excused myself to the powder room and got all turned around, you see. Ended up in navigation of all places. Mister Boyde, being the sweetheart he is, put everything aside to come look for me.”

  “You escaped your cell,” Deputy Boyd corrected. He placed the flat of his hand against Misty’s shoulder and attempted to forcefully guide her to the bench. “After slitting your cellmate’s throat.”

  Misty remained fixed in place, unlike her smile, which widened beyond natural means. “Heavens to Betsy, no. That wasn’t me, dear. I already told you. I found him that way.”

  “Dammit, Misty! No more games.” The deputy’s last thread of patience finally snapped. The tremble in his voice traveled to his hands until his whole body vibrated with a curious mix of fear and fury. “Move!”

  “Now see here, there is no reason to use that tone, young man.” Misty squared off with Deputy Boyd, face-to-face, refusing to back down. She let him have it, no holds barred, and gave him the dressing down of a century. She was mid-rant, talking so quickly the poor deputy couldn’t get a word in edgewise, when Dobson realized Misty was up to something. The cutthroat queen wasn’t even paying attention to the stuttering deputy. She watched Dobson from the corner of her eye instead, trying to communicate something using nonverbal cues.

  Dobson failed to decipher the strange look Misty was giving her. She cocked her head to the side, demonstrating her confusion.

  Rolling her eyes, Misty gave up the game and turned on her, snapping, “Seatbelt, pumpkin! And don’t make me tell you again.”

  Boyd was too worked up to catch the not-so-subtle warning. “Misty—”

  Misty jumped right back into the argument without missing a beat. “Don’t you ‘Misty’ me, boy! I am Miss McClain to you, and I will be treated with respect.”

  The floor bumped and jostled fiercer than before. Distracted by the commotion, Dobson hadn’t realized until then that the locomotive was picking up speed. The train cars bucked like wild broncos in the engine’s wake, threatening to jump the tracks. It didn’t make sense. The train was set to a specific speed. The only way to change the speed would be to physically alter the settings and…

  Great chariots of fire. Misty’s warning suddenly made sense. Hurriedly, Dobson pulled the tether from the wall and cinched it across her body.

  Across from her, Boyd and Misty were still going at it like a pair of howling hellcats. The deputy’s hand moved to his side and hovered over his sidearm. The wild gleam in Misty’s eyes spoke volumes. Not only had she anticipated this, but it was exactly what she wanted. She was purposefully taunting the frazzled deputy, needling him into drawing his pistol from its bio-locked holster.

  “I said now!” Deputy Boyd drew his firearm the same moment the jostling floor lurched violently, sending both him and Misty fighting for their balance.

  Misty used the momentum to her advantage. She threw herself sideways and slammed her shoulder into him, sending the flailing deputy sprawling. The gun fell from his grasp and slid across the slick tile.

  Dobson slammed her foot down and trapped the pistol beneath her heel.

  The train car bucked several feet in the air, throwing everything not bolted down sideways. It was the final warning before the iron beast jumped the tracks. Nimble as a cat, Misty sprinted the length of the cell and slammed her ass down onto the bench beside Dobson. She fought to secure her safety belt, but the shackles on her wrists prevented her from reaching behind her. No matter how Misty twisted and turned in the seat, the harness remained inaccessible.

  She wouldn’t make it. Despite all her careful planning, Misty had failed to take into account her own safety. Her body would splatter against the ceiling the moment the train jumped the tracks.

  Cursing aloud, wondering what trouble she’d just welcomed into her life, Dobson shoved Misty against the wall and drew the harness down over her. The buckle clicked into place a split second before the train lost control. Dobson’s safety harness activated. The straps went rigid, yanking her into the proper, upright position with her back straight and shoulders pressed to the wall.

  The train car flipped. Deputy Boyd’s scream was swallowed by the roar of the crash as gravity upended itself. The car slammed back down and then flipped end over end. The bench seat shuddered violently beneath Dobson with each gut-wrenching flip. Against all odds, it held strong as the train car finally skidded to a stop. The mechanical scream of system failure ignited the stale air seconds before the flickering lights blinked out, rendering the cell pitch black.

  Ghostcat, for taking the time to help me write a limerick specifically for this story (which I then ruthlessly cut out during editing). Thanks, Ghostie! I appreciate you and I promise to put it in the author's note at the end.