Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

another, confused, but then unslung or unholstered guns. He had about a dozen of them here, with some others in reserve. Just in case. Never put all your bullets in the same gun when Waxillium was around.
    “But boss,” one of the Vanishers called, “the report said the train left without the guards inside!”
    Miles cocked his gun. “If you find a building without rats, son, then you know that something more dangerous scared them away.”
    “You think he’s in there?” Push said in a near monotone, stepping up beside him. Obviously, he hadn’t heard Miles’s conversation about Wax on the barge.
    Miles nodded.
    “And you brought him here.”
    Miles nodded again.
    Push’s face darkened. “You should have told us.”
    “You were given to me to help deal with him,” Miles said. “I just wanted to see you boys get your chance.” He turned. “Start the motor!”
    One of the men pulled the lever, and the chains grew taut. They groaned, pulling against the door. The train car rattled, but was kept in place by the other chains behind.
    “Be ready!” Miles called. “When the door opens, fire at anything that so much as quivers inside that car. Arm yourselves only with aluminum, and don’t save ammunition. We can collect the bullets later and recast them.”
    The train’s door buckled in its mountings, the metal groaning. Miles and his men moved out to the sides, away from the path of the chains. Three hastily went to set up the rotary gun, but Miles waved them down. They didn’t have aluminum bullets for that, so firing it could be a disaster against a prepared Coinshot.
    Miles refocused his attention on the vault car. He stilled his breath and felt his body grow warm as he increased the power he was tapping from his metalmind. He didn’t need to breathe. His body renewed itself each moment. He’d stop his heartbeat if he could. A heartbeat was such an annoyance when trying to aim.
    Even without breathing, he’d never been able to shoot as well as Wax. Of course, nobody could. The man seemed to have an inborn instinct for firearms. Miles had seen him make shots he’d have sworn were impossible. It almost seemed a shame to kill such a man. It would be like burning a one-of-a-kind painting, a masterpiece.
    But it was what had to be done. Miles extended his arm, sighting with the revolver. The door continued to warp, and the links in several of the chains began to show strain. But there were enough of them, and the motor was strong enough, that the door’s bindings began to break. Scraps of metal sprang free, bolts snapping. One took Miles on the cheek, ripping skin. The cut regrew itself immediately. No pain. He only faintly remembered what pain felt like.
    Then the door gave a final screech of death, ripping free and flying across the room. It hit the ground, spraying sparks and skidding as the man at the lever hastily stopped the engine. The door came to a rest between the Vanishers, who nervously trained their weapons on the dark interior of the car.
    Come on, Wax, Miles thought. Play your hand. You’ve come to me. Into my den, into my lair. You’re mine now.
    Poor fool. Wax never could stop himself if a woman was in danger.
    That was when Miles noticed the string. Thin, almost invisible, it led from the fallen door to the inside of the railcar. It must have been tied to the door, then set inside in a loose pile with lots of slack. When they yanked the door off, the string didn’t snap, but was strung out along behind. What …
    Miles glanced again at the fallen door. Tape. Dynamite.
    Aw, hell.
    Someone inside the train car—hiding behind the box of aluminum—pulled the string tight with a sudden jerk.

18

    Outside, the entire room shook. Inside, the train car lurched—though it appeared someone had been kind enough to secure it in place, preventing Waxillium from being thrown about too much. He held on to the rope he’d tied around the strongbox, head down, Vindication up beside his ear.
    As soon as the blast wave passed, he threw himself over the top of the box and ducked out into the room. Smoke churned in the air; bits of stone and steel were scattered across the floor. Most of the lights had been knocked out by the explosion, and those that remained were swinging wildly, painting the room with bewildering shadows.
    Waxillium scanned the devastation and did a quick count. At least four men down. He probably could have hit more if he’d detonated the explosion earlier, but he’d