By Timothy Lantz

Last train of the night, only two stops before the end of the line. I pull my coat around me and try to disappear into the corner of the car. From under my hood I catch a glimpse of the station as we pull to a stop. Standing on the platform is a party girl. She's drunk or maybe high. I can tell by the way she's standing. She's concentrating on not falling. That's something that comes automatic unless there's a reason. Beside her, another girl leans against the support column, she has her eyes closed, but wears a huge smile. Apparently, it was a good night to be out on the town.

When the doors open, party girl kisses her friend goodbye, then steps on board. The other girl stands outside waving.

As the train pulls away, the girl struggles to come to a decision on whether to sit or just stand. She clings to the steel pole, steadying herself. Decision made.

She hasn't noticed me yet. I sit motionless, studying her. She's Latino, long dark curls and big gold hoop earrings. Underneath a tan overcoat, she has a painted on red dress. It's too short and I can see her inner thigh. I follow her legs down as they disappear into a pair or red boots, complete with Spice Girl heels. That will make running difficult, but maybe it will be her lucky night.

The train starts to slow and I can see the lights of the next station as they come into view. He is standing on the edge of the platform. I know it's him almost immediately. Average height, middle aged, white, glasses, going bald... it's practically the textbook definition of cliché.

He watches as the cars glide past. He's hunting.

When he sees party girl, I think I catch the slight hint of a smile. It's gone quickly however.

He steps inside the car, and for the first time I notice the briefcase in his hand. It's small, leather-bound and worn at the edges. He's been at this for a long time.

He casually steps past the girl and she makes no effort to avoid him. Probably a bad move on her part. He takes a seat and I notice his eyes as he catches sight of me for the first time. There is a spot of recognition, but otherwise his face is blank. Maybe my presence has made him rethink his plan.

He places the briefcase on the seat next to him and opens the latches. The top of the case shields the contents from view. Doesn't matter though, I know what's inside.

I turn my head a little. It's subtle, but it's enough. He knows I'm watching him. His smile returns.

The train breaks squeal as we round a turn. Momentum carries the girl around the pole, she seems startled by the pull of inertia. Our man makes his move. He reaches out grabbing the girl by the arm and pulling her into his lap. A quick flash of silver and I see he's struck with the syringe.

The girl's too dumbstruck to even realize what happened. She looks terrified, turns and tries to pull herself free. Her head sags.

I make my move, throwing back the coat. A .45 in my right hand, I bring my arm up into position, aiming at the guy's face.

That's when I see it. The razor in his other hand pressed against the soft flesh of the girl's throat. It's just beginning it's bite. There's a small bead of red.

"Your move," he states coldly.