I had noticed him a few weeks previous--a new face on my daily commute. He kept to himself, usually riding at the back of the subway car and jotting into a small notebook he carried. With his wire-framed glasses and quiet demeanor, I had taken him for a scholar of some sort.

He was tall, dark and handsome in an austere way; I found him well worth looking at as a means to pass the time. But he didn't want the attention. I could tell by the annoyance that flickered across his features when he caught me watching him. I wasn't trying to be rude or forward. He obviously wasn't interested in socializing, but I saw no harm in surreptitiously admiring him from a distance.

He wasn't blandly handsome: his features were more individual than classic. A high forehead above gracefully arcing brows, intense dark eyes and sculptured cheekbones defined his face. His nose was just a little snubbed, and his mouth marked by slightly pouting lips that suited his pensiveness. The combination was aesthetically pleasing and he carried himself with a self-possession that drew my eyes to follow him.

Yet there was something about him that cautioned as much as attracted me. Not just his aloofness, but the controlled intensity of his eyes, as if he kept himself carefully contained. He shimmered with a subtle aura of danger.

I didn't see him when I boarded the train today. I didn't think much of it, since he was only an occasional rider. The early afternoon traffic was light-just a handful of us in the car-so I took a seat in the front third of the car. My hours at the library were flexible enough that I was able to avoid the more congested travel times. With any luck, I'd be home and relaxing by the time the rush hour was in full swing. My fellow passengers were the usual mix: a retired person or two, young office workers and shoppers, a pair of kids, a businessman.

The woman carrying a florist's box was probably on her way to a party, or maybe to visit someone in the hospital. Yeah, the way she was dressed--casual--suggested the latter. The blonde guy with the backpack may have been a college student on his way home from class. There was nothing particularly remarkable about either of them.

I settled back in my seat and pulled a book out of my bag before the train even started moving. I wish I could say I had a premonition of the darkness that was about to fall, but the day seemed like any other.

Just after three p.m., it all came down.

The train came to an inexplicable stop. That brought me up out of my book to look around. Everyone else seemed as puzzled as I was. A harried-looking man exited the train cab but didn't answer any questions as he passed through the car. I noticed the blonde man, whom I had taken for a student, standing near the rear door. He nodded as the other man approached and opened the door for him. They seemed to know each other, for the two exchanged brief words as the older man exited the back of the car, but I couldn't hear what was said.

I got back into my book, trying to ignore the peculiarities of the New York subway system. When the harried-looking gent returned, I scarcely noticed him or the two women who were with him. Only a cryptic fragment of conversation, overheard as he entered the train cab, penetrated my awareness.

"Any trouble, Mr. Green?" asked a slightly husky tenor voice.

"Smooth as silk, Mr. Blue..." he replied.

He closed the cab door, leaving me wondering at the strange names--and how many people were in that cab, anyway? Oh well, I thought with a mental shrug as the train began moving again. They seemed to have things under control.

Before I could raise my book again, a tall man in black turtleneck and jeans came out of the train cab. It took me a few seconds to recognize him as the same man I had been furtively watching for the past few weeks. The reclusive scholar-now sans notebook and wire-rims--had been transformed.

He threw a quick glance around the train car and began walking down the aisle with measure tread. He wore a shoulder holster under his right arm and carried something long and dark in his left hand, holding it down along his leg. I had barely registered what precisely he was carrying when he raised the automatic weapon up to rest against his shoulder.

The sight of it sent a ripple panic through the car. I froze in place while most of the other passengers rose to their feet, crying out in surprise or reeling back against the wall. Chaos reverberated within the confined space.

"Attention, please--."

His voice resonated with calm command. "Everybody sit down--. Sit down--." He spoke in short imperatives. "Remain seated."

He cast an imperious glance up and down the car, making eye contact with each of us.

"If you rise, you will be shot." The stress he put on the last word left no doubt as to his intention. The man radiated coiled danger, despite his composed manner.

The other passengers babbled in confused surprise.

"Silence." The authority in his voice stilled the tumult.

"This is not going to happen..." The businessman halfway down the car got to his feet in a brave but ill-advised attempt to face him down.

The man in black lowered the automatic weapon to the ready position. The laser sight sprung to life. "You see that red dot on your chest? " The man looked down at the indicated spot, marking his shirt just above his heart.

"If I squeeze this trigger," our captor continued, " I'll fill it with eight hundred and fifty rounds a minute." He let that sink in for a second. "Sit down--!"

The businessman dropped into his seat, eyes carefully lowered.

"Very good," the tall man said. He surveyed us once more, his eyes lingering on me with a subtle glint of recognition. I began to regret my silly fascination with him. I had never bargained on this...

I spent the next few minutes trying to remain small and inconspicuous in my seat while the man and his cohorts-the blonde man, the woman with the flower box and the harried-looking fellow-went about implementing what appeared to be a well-thought-out plan. The train came to a halt once again, deep in the bowels of the earth. Lethal-looking firearms sprouted from under coats and out of bags. Lookouts were posted at each end of the train car. Mr. Green set about deploying some type of proximity warning device in the tunnel. The tall man-the others called him Mr. Blue-oversaw the activity with efficient vigilance. He took up position uncomfortably near to where I sat, perhaps five feet away.

An elderly gentleman sitting a few seats down from me finally broke the tense silence.

"Excuse me, Mister, don't you think you should let us know what's going on?"

He swung that nasty-looking weapon up behind his head to lie across his shoulders. The casualness of that gesture spoke to his familiarity with the firearm. He enunciated each word for emphasis.

"You're being held by four dangerous people with automatic weapons--that's what's going on. Is that clear?"

It was more than clear.

In the leaden silence of the train car, he ran his eyes up and down the aisle as if cataloging each passenger and assessing their potential for trouble. His dark eyes met and held mine for a moment. His expression was unreadable but I didn't like being on his radar.

I felt some small relief when he finally turned his attention to his compatriot. "What time you got, Mr. Green?"

"I got three ten--"

"It's time to talk to them..."

The two went into the cab and closed the door.

That left the other two as guards, but we were a docile group. Disturbed, dislocated from our daily routines, none of us could find the emotional footing to protest or resist. Even if we did-there were those terrible weapons and the will to use them.

The blonde guy-Mr. Gray-was problematic. He wasn't as focused as the others, distracted by the women on the train. I watched him leer at some of the female passengers further down the train car, and hoped the situation wouldn't become explosive.

He seemed determined to force his presence on the blonde in the camel coat, though. I felt sorry for her--having to deal with him on top of the whole horrid situation. She had been semi-hysterical earlier and it pissed me off that this thug was hassling her. I watched him sit down next to her and whisper suggestive remarks while the poor woman sat in frozen horror. I wanted to tell him to leave her alone but felt an understandable fear of drawing his attention to me.

"Mr. Gray?" Mr. Blue had come out of the cab. He stood about ten feet from me; his attention focused on his disruptive associate.

A look of displeasure crossed Mr. Gray's thick features but he reluctantly got up and swaggered over where Mr. Blue waited. I was too far to hear what they said but the tension between the two of them was obvious. Apparently, Mr. Blue knew what strings to pull to keep Mr. Gray in line, because when he went back to the train cab, he left Mr. Gray standing well away from the blonde. The frustrated ruffian made some suggestive facial gestures toward the woman but kept his place.

When the shooting broke out, Mr. Blue exploded from the cab. If I had held any doubts, the way he issued orders, the way he handled the situation, betrayed a military or paramilitary background.

"Everybody forward-let's go! Let's go!" He flew past me; his weapon clutched in both hands and finger on the trigger. "Everybody forward!"

The female, Brown, stayed back guarding us, while the men conferred at the end of the car. I studied them, trying to figure out what had happened. Mr. Green seemed a nervous wreck in contrast to Mr. Gray's nonchalance. As always, Mr. Blue was controlled and in command.

"They shot someone," one of the other passengers whispered. "Someone was coming up the tracks and that blonde guy blew him away." I turned my head-it was the businessman, who had scrambled into the seat behind me during the commotion. There was fear in his gray eyes. "These people are cold-blooded killers."

"Hey, you," Brown said, gesturing with her weapon. "No talking."

The businessman shrank back into the seat and I turned back around.

When he had settled things to his satisfaction at the far end of the car, Mr. Blue made his way back toward the cab, moving along the car with fluid grace, swinging his weapon easily at his side. As he passed me, turning slightly sideways to slip past, his gaze lingered on me once again, but his closed expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking.

Stunned silence settled over the train as the realization of what stakes were in play penetrated our collective consciousness. Shots had been fired. Somewhere out there in the darkness a man had died. We each began to comprehend that our lives were in danger.

Mr. Gray, seemingly energized by the gunfire, paced back and forth at his post at the far end of the car. Brown (whom her companions called "Mr. Brown" for some obscure reason) was carrying on a hushed conversation with the female transit worker. I suspected that the transit worker had settled on Brown as being the weakest link in our captors' chain and was trying to subvert her. I just hoped it wouldn't mark her as a troublemaker in Mr. Blue's book. I wouldn't want to be on that man's bad side.

Speak of the devil--

Mr. Blue came out of the train cab. He moved along in the shadows, watching the interaction between Brown and the other woman for a few seconds before he spoke. As usual, his voice was cool and quiet.

"Mr. Brown."

The woman flinched and turned her attention to him. He lowered his voice even more.

"I want you to walk over there to the other end and cover that door. I want Mr. Gray over here with me so I can keep an eye on him."

She nodded. "He loves his guns," she said cynically.

"Well, maybe it was necessary," he said. "I didn't see." His voice was mild.

As she headed off to carry out his instructions, the woman turned briefly. "He got off on it."

Having struck out with the blonde in the camel coat and been relegated to this end of the train, Mr. Gray shifted his unwanted attention to me. He leaned against the rail leering at me for several minutes, then made his move when Mr. Blue was occupied in the train cab.

He planted himself in the seat beside me. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice smarmy and insinuating.

I turned my face away from him. He slid close, pressing against me as he leaned over and gave a sniff. "I like your perfume," he said. The lazy way his eyes traveled up and down my body made me feel soiled. I gave him my most chilling stare and made a mental note to dump my entire stash of "Sunflowers" down the drain if and when I got home.

"It's subtle-innocent." He shifted closer, undaunted by my indifference. His face inches from mine, he asked in a suggestive tone, "Are *you* innocent?"

I had been pushed far enough. "Go f*ck yourself-" I snapped.

His leer broadened into a grin. "I'd rather-"

"Mr. Gray-."

Mr. Blue stood in the aisle, his eyes on us. He raised his eyebrows. "Can I see you a moment, please?" He gave the distinct impression it was not a request. With a scowl, Mr. Gray lurched to his feet and went to confer with his leader.

They stood inches from each other, their voices pitched only for one another's hearing, but in the stillness of the train, I couldn't help but overhear.

"I need you to stay away from the women," Mr. Blue said with controlled intensity.

"And I need you to stay out of my face," Mr. Gray growled.

Mr. Blue leaned closer, his voice low, virtually a whisper.

"I have shot people for not obeying me."

The words rang with chilling veracity. Mr. Gray flinched back, then fumbled to recover.

"I've seen you looking at her," he sneered. "You have plans for her yourself, Mr. Blue?"

I shrank in my seat, wishing for invisibility, as Mr. Blue's dark eyes flickered over me before returning to his minion.

"You know what my plan is, Mr. Gray," he said coolly. "See that you keep to it--and leave the women alone."

He turned on his heel and went back toward the cab. Mr. Gray cast a lascivious look in my direction, but kept his distance.

An hour had passed since the hijacking, though it seemed like much longer. We had no way of knowing how the negotiations were going or what progress had been made toward our release. Our captors gave nothing away. But judging from the increasing sense of tension among the hijackers, it was apparent that things were not going according to plan.

I had a premonition when he came out of the cab. Maybe it was something in the purposeful way he moved; the soft scrape of his feet on the worn tile floor was the sole sound in the closed area. He carried his gun casually slung up on one shoulder, only the slight flexing of his fingers on the stock revealing his discomfiture.

The stark lighting painted the planes of his face in light and shadows, lending it a certain terrible beauty. It was an inane thought, given the circumstances, but I watched him, fascinated.

He looked down the car, tilting his head slightly, regarding each passenger in turn. He was pondering something, some decision-that much was evident. His shrewd eyes seemed to be assessing, weighing possibilities, and we passengers exchanged uncertain glances, fearful.

Even his cohorts watched him with a faint air of apprehension.

He was hypnotic. I was unable to take my eyes off him. He turned to regard the transit worker tending Brown, even took a half step in that direction before drawing himself up with second thoughts.

Then he turned and looked right at me. Oh, no-my brain froze on that one thought. I prayed for his unwanted attention to shift elsewhere but his dark eyes pinned me in place.

"You," he said.

I flinched at the word.

"Stand up, please."

No-no--not me, I wanted to beg. My heart turned over in my chest, my mouth suddenly dry from fear. Please, not me-- But I knew in my bones there was no appeal. He swung the automatic weapon down, cradled it in his arms across his chest. He raised his eyebrows. "Stand up," he repeated. He was not a man accustomed to repeating himself.

I stood up.

He looked me up and down in calm appraisal--not in a sexual way but as if taking my measure, settling on his decision. His self-possessed expression gave nothing away, but my dread crystallized. I knew my life was in danger, and I didn't know how to save myself.

"Come with me," he said and turned, moving with that easy saunter toward the front of the train.

All eyes but his were on me as I watched him move away. Don't let this be happening to me... I knew I had to follow, had to go with him, but I couldn't make my feet move. I felt no resistance--the long hour of fear and suspense had burned all resistance out of me. But some primal survival instinct kept me rooted to the spot.

At the front of the car, he turned. When he saw that I was still standing in place, he raised his eyebrows as if to say, well, are you coming? I knew I couldn't win a battle of wills with this inflexible man. I couldn't win any battle--he was bigger, stronger and heavily armed. I could not stand against him. He made a beckoning gesture with his hand. "C'mon," he urged, his gentle tone of voice betraying none of his intentions. I forced myself into motion. He held my gaze all the way there.

"Good," he said softly, when I shambled to a stop an arm's length from him. He turned and opened the door to the darkness beyond. With a predator's grace, he swung himself to the tracks below, then offered his hand to help me down. It was an artist's hand, a scholar's hand--large, long-fingered, graceful--not the hand of a killer at all.

"Be careful stepping down," he admonished. The softness in his voice could have been mistaken for solicitude, but the sinister weapon he propped against his hip as he reached up to assist me reminded me otherwise. This man could use his voice to calm and manipulate, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.

I hesitated at the door, tempted to negotiate, though I doubted it would do me any good. He was already down there on his killing ground; his hand raised up to guide me down. One way or another, I would join him there.

I felt movement behind me. Mr. Gray--who had already demonstrated his willingness to kill-was moving into position at my back. To hesitate now was to tempt his instability. I didn't think I could grow any more frightened, but knowing that thug was behind me sent a frisson of fear down my spine.

I grasped Mr. Blue's arm and dropped to the tracks.

He kept his hand tight around my forearm, holding me tethered while he gave directions to his crew. "Go back and keep them quiet," he said to Mr. Gray. The blonde man glanced at me, his expression indecipherable, then disappeared.

Mr. Blue turned his head to regard me for a moment, his eyes in shadow.

"Mr. Green," he called softly. The older man shuffled reluctantly to the doorway.

"Hold this for me." Mr. Blue handed his automatic weapon up to Mr. Green then turned back to me. He pulled his handgun from its holster.

The look we exchanged spoke volumes.

I knew then with utter certainty that he was going to kill me. He knew that I knew. There was no need for pretense--only the numb realization that my life had led me to this point, trapped in circumstances I could not control. He had chosen me and no pleading or arguing would change his mind.

I knew virtually nothing about him, but I knew that much.

I swallowed and tried to keep my gaze steady, tried to keep my knees from buckling.

His quick eyes took in both my fear and my acquiescence. He released my arm. "Let's go over here," he suggested, his voice casual, almost conversational. He gestured with the weapon-despite his tone, it was no request--and waited for my compliance.

I hung back. I didn't want to be shot in the back. That would be the easiest for him--to just blow me away unannounced while I was walking in front of him. No tears, no dramatics--yes, he'd like the cool efficiency of that. But I wanted to go on my terms if I was going to go quietly.

He gave a questioning look at my hesitation, reading the suspicion in my eyes. He reached out to me, sliding his hand under my hair, wrapping his long fingers around the back of my neck. He pulled me close, so that we walked side by side, as he guided me back along the train.

At moments of stress, sensations are heightened and the most incongruous things strike one. As I fought to maintain my composure, I noticed how nearly our strides matched, and the warmth of his hand on my neck, the firm pressure of his arm against my back. He held the gun loosely at his side in his left hand, barely within my field of view.

For a long minute, the only sound was the crunch of gravel underfoot and my own frightened breathing. He must have known I was struggling to keep my emotions in check, he must have felt me tremble under his touch, but he said nothing. A cruel or evil man would have taunted me, aroused my fear, perhaps tried to get me to plead for my life. Someone with a heart to pity might have mouthed words of solace. There was none of that in him--just cool purpose.

"Here. This is far enough." I shivered at the finality in that mild voice.

He pushed me back against the side of the train car. We stood for a moment in intimate proximity, his hand on my shoulder, blocking me against the side of the train with his body, so close I could feel the warmth where his knee bushed my leg. Close enough to catch his scent, warm and masculine. Close enough, in the half-light falling from the train's windows, to see the individual stubble on his cheeks, to look into those dark, unreadable eyes.

"I know you," I said.

He raised one eyebrow.

"You're the Angel of Death."

His only response was to cock the gun and press it against my ribcage, angling the barrel up toward my heart. "I'll make it quick," he said quietly.

"W-wait." I wet my lips. "First--one thing."

He tilted his head slightly back, veiling his eyes under half-lowered lids. "What?"

"Kiss me." In the stillness of the tunnel, I sounded breathless. "Kiss me good-bye."

At first, I thought he would refuse. A look of irritation crossed his features before his face smoothed. He regarded me in silence for a moment.

"Why?"

"You-you're taking my life--everything--from me." I swallowed the emotion that threatened to shake my voice. "Give me this much. A little human contact--at the end." It was ludicrous, I know. I was in no position to bargain or make demands. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

"It won't change my mind," he said.

"I know that."

Awareness flashed in his eyes, as if he suspected he would not be getting out of this alive either. Mortality bound us, executioner and victim. We held that fragile bond between us. This was a dance we would do together. I felt his fingers flexing their grip on my shoulder, his thumb brushing the soft flesh of my neck as he considered my request.

"Alright," he said at last.

He tilted his head to one side, his hand tightening on my shoulder to keep me still, the other--the one holding the pistol--sliding around to rest against the small of my back. Gingerly, I lifted my hands, slipping my arms around him--awkward at first-tentative--not sure if he would permit the contact.

He bent his head and pressed his pursed lips against mine--just the kind of kiss you would give a stranger--then he surprised me by opening his mouth, deepening the kiss. He leaned his body into mine. The warmth of his mouth was so at odds with his austere manner and the lost distance in his eyes that I shuddered under his grasp. A sob caught in my throat, as he drew the moment out. I thought I heard a slight in-drawn breath in response. But I could have been mistaken.

This is how it ends, I thought, a man and a woman kissing beside a train. A kiss of death from a dark angel.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears that welled up. At that last moment, I had hoped to reach that controlled passion I had glimpsed on the train but he remained self-contained, distant. His kiss was thorough and deep but he gave nothing of himself. I wondered for the last time what desperate circumstances had brought him to this point, knowing that I would never know.

He finally broke off, moving back slightly. He pushed me firmly against the train, holding me there at arm's length.

"It's time," he said. His voice held no trace of malice or regret. His eyes, probing mine, held only determination. "This is necessary," he said softly. That was as close to an apology as he could give.

"I'm ready," I said. I felt the barrel of the gun press firmly against my ribs. I blinked back tears and lifted my chin.

"You are very brave," he said. It sounded like approval.

No movement or change of expression marked the moment he pulled the trigger. The world shattered into sound and shock as a burning sensation stabbed through my chest.

I gasped, struggling to draw breath against a crushing pressure in my chest. I pitched forward until he caught me, bracing me with his body. Carefully, he supported me in his arms, letting me fall against his torso. He watched me, revealing neither pleasure nor sorrow. I looked up into that impassive face as long as I could as the world began to fade to darkness around me. He looked on in utter stillness as I surrendered my life. My head slumped forward against his chest--I could feel the thud of his heart against my forehead as my own pulse wavered, felt the warmth of his body as coldness crept over me.

Then there was no more.

Mr. Blue let the woman's body slip to the gravel, then squatted beside her. He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. She was gone. No coup de grace would be needed. He stood up and shoved his pistol back into its holster. His eyes flicked over her once more before he turned and walked back to the front of the train. With one smooth motion, he swung himself up and on board,

The passengers sat in shocked silence. Even his cohorts avoided his eyes. He entered the cab and slumped into the seat. There was a patch of dampness on his shirt that could have been blood.

"Why her?" Mr. Green's voice was tentative.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the cab wall and closed his eyes. "She was a distraction."

"She shouldn't have had to pay for Mr. Gray's indiscretion-"

He opened his eyes and looked at Mr. Green.

"Not to him." His words were pointed without being harsh. He tilted his head back again and regarded the darkness beyond the cab window. "To me. She was a distraction to me."

The silence stretched a moment longer before Mr. Blue reached up for the microphone.