Chapter 5 Ghost train to Belarus

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Chapter 5: Ghost Train to Belarus

The train station smelled like diesel and despair. Jimmy stood on the platform, blending into the crowd of travelers wrapped in thick coats and distant thoughts. Snow fell in slow, heavy flakes, each one a ticking clock. His new passport-James Obasi-was tucked safely in his coat. The name didn't feel like him, but maybe that was the point.

The train to Belarus arrived with a groan, its metal body worn by years of secrets. He boarded without looking back, moving to a quiet carriage at the rear. A man in a fur coat nodded at him as he passed, but Jimmy kept his head low. The further he was from Moscow, the closer he was to breathing again.

As the train pulled away, Jimmy stared out the window. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger. The drugs were out of his system now, but they'd left behind a silence that hurt. The high was gone. And all that remained was the weight of everything he'd done.

He closed his eyes.

Memories crashed in.

The first deal in Lagos.

The overdosed girl in St. Petersburg.

The innocent kid he let take the fall in exchange for cash.

He wanted to be clean. Not just from drugs-but from the lies, the blood, the greed. But how do you wash off sin when it's soaked into your soul?

The door to the carriage slid open.

Jimmy's body stiffened.

A man entered-tall, scarred, eyes cold like Siberian ice. He didn't belong on a train. He looked like a bullet dressed in leather.

"James Obasi?" the man asked, accent thick.

Jimmy stood, slowly. "Who's asking?"

The man showed a badge-Russian Narcotics Special Force.

They found him.

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He didn't think. He moved.

Elbowed the man in the throat. Grabbed his gun. Shouts rang out. Passengers screamed. Jimmy shoved through the aisle, heart pounding louder than the train's engine.

Bullets shattered windows. He ducked into another carriage, yanked the emergency lever.

The train screeched.

Doors opened.

Snowstorm outside.

He jumped.

The ground slammed into him like a truck. Pain exploded through his ribs. But he rolled, crawled, and forced himself to his feet.

Somewhere behind, the special force agent was calling for backup.

Jimmy limped into the woods beside the tracks. The cold bit into him, slicing through layers like knives. But he didn't stop.

He wouldn't die here.

Not in the snow.

Not with regret.

Not before he found a way out.

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That night, as he collapsed in an abandoned hunter's cabin miles from the tracks, Jimmy lit a small fire with trembling hands.

He wasn't Jay Ice anymore.

He wasn't James Obasi.

He was something new now.

A ghost.

And ghosts don't get caught.