Mistborn #04 The Alloy of Law

up at the tracks again.
    “Not enough footprints,” Wax said softly. “There’s no way this was carried out with manpower. Even if there was a speed-bubble.”
    “I think you’re right,” Marasi said. “If the robbery happened right there, a machine could have remained in the canal and still reached the tracks.”
    Waxillium stood and dusted his hands off. “Let’s head back. I need time to think.”
    * * *

    Waxillium walked down the center of the passenger car, hands wet from scrubbing them in the washroom. The car thumped beneath him, fields speeding by outside.
    Where would Miles be hiding? Waxillium’s mind went in loops. The City offered too many places to hide, and Miles wasn’t a typical criminal. He was a former lawkeeper. Waxillium’s normal instincts would be off.
    He’ll want to scale back, Waxillium decided. He’s careful. Judicious. He spent months between stealing the aluminum and making his next robbery.
    Miles had lost men and resources. He’d hide for a time. But where ? Waxillium leaned against the corridor wall. This first-class railcar was made up of private compartments. He could faintly hear people talking in the one beside him. Children. It had been a long walk through six railcars to find the one with an available washroom. Wayne and Marasi were in a compartment several cars farther along.
    If Marasi was right about the intended function of the kidnapped women, then a grim fate awaited them. Miles could afford to step back, let the trail grow cold. Each hour delayed would make him that much more difficult to find.
    No, Waxillium thought. He’ll need one more heist. A quick one, perhaps without any hostages, to get more aluminum. Waxillium had looked over the original theft reports, and had managed to make an accurate assessment of the amount of aluminum Tekiel had been smuggling. It would have barely been enough to outfit thirty or forty men. That would leave Miles needing one more heist before going to ground; that way, he could use the downtime to make more guns and ammunition.
    That left Waxillium with one more opportunity to catch him. If he could set it up right. He—
    The scream was faint, but Waxillium had trained himself to be vigilant for such things. Always alert, especially when he was busy thinking. He immediately threw himself to the side, which saved his life as the bullet ripped through the glass window at the end of the railcar.
    Waxillium twisted, pulling a revolver from its holster. A figure in black stood in the next car, looking through the broken window. He wore the mask again, eyes exposed, knit covering the rest of his features. The build was right, though—and the height, even the way he held his gun.
    Idiot! Waxillium thought. His instincts had been off. An ordinary criminal would have gone to ground. But not Miles. He was a former lawman, accustomed to hunting rather than being hunted.
    And if you caused a twist in his plans, he’d come looking for you.

13

    Waxillium didn’t have time to raise his weapon. He instantly increased his weight and flared his steel as he Pushed forward on the doors between the railcars. The glass windows exploded as the doors bent and ripped free, blocking the bullets as Miles fired three times in quick succession.
    The car lurched as the train began a turn. Heads popped out of compartments, wide eyes searching for the cause of the noise. Miles again took aim down the corridor at Waxillium. Children nearby were crying.
    I can’t risk bystanders, Waxillium thought. I have to get out.
    As the gun fired, Waxillium threw himself forward. A bullet ricocheted near his head, spraying sparks. He couldn’t sense it Allomantically. It was aluminum.
    Waxillium burst out into the space between railcars, wind roaring and tugging on his clothing. As Miles fired his sixth shot, Waxillium Pushed on the couplers below and launched himself upward.
    He soared into the air above the railcars. The wind caught him, pushing him backward as he fell. He landed with a thump on the roof several cars to the rear, going down on one knee and steadying himself with his free hand, wind blasting his hair and catching his jacket. He raised his revolver.
    Miles was here. On the train.
    I could stop him now. End this.
    The next thought was immediate. How in the world was he going to stop Miles Hundredlives?
    A masked figure rose between the train cars just ahead—maybe only ten feet away—holding a big-bore pistol. Miles always had preferred