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clearly alarmed. “You really should butt out and go back to your seat,” he told her.
    “The conductor is searching for the two of you right now, and when he finds you, he’s going to lock you up,” she said, gaining confidence as she saw how upset Dawkins was. “Maybe he’ll handcuff you to a seat or something. Or maybe they’ll just stop the train and have the police take you away.”
    “Greta Sustermann,” I said, deciding it was time to speak up.
    Greta was probably the smartest person in my old school, back in Brooklyn.
    “Ronan Truelove?” Greta said, her brow furrowing. “Loser loner arsonist?”
    Sometimes also the most annoying.
    “I did not set my house on fire!” I protested. “And you were in the same honors classes with me, so if I’m a loser, so are you.”
    “Is that why you left school? To ride the rails with ” — s he sniffed loudl y — “ really filthy pickpockets?”
    “ ‘Ride the rails’?” I repeated. “Who even talks like that?”
    “You know this girl?” Dawkins wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid to the edge of the booth. “No one is going to jail, missy.”
    “I’m not a missy , you creep,” Greta said, reaching into a boxy blue purse that was slung over her shoulder and taking out a slim little smartphone.
    “My name,” Dawkins said, “is Jack Dawkins. What are you doing there?”
    “Texting my dad , who happens to be in law enforcement, to see what he advises the conductor to do. You are going to answer for your crimes, sir.”
    “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Dawkins said.
    “And I really wish you weren’t a scummy thief,” Greta said, her fingers flying across the touch pad. “It’s only a matter of time before your crimes catch up with you.”
    “That time has already come,” Dawkins said, frowning. He popped the last bite of Butterfinger into his mouth, then stood and waved. “Hello there!”
    A man in a blue suit had come in so silently that I hadn’t even noticed. He passed soundlessly within inches of Greta, ignoring her completely. He was a different guy than the one who’d run alongside the trai n — f or one thing, this guy’s hair was thin and completely colorless, like it was spun from dental flos s — b ut he was dressed exactly the same: natty blue suit over a white shirt.
    “Greta,” Dawkins said, picking up the turquoise tray and backing up. Floss Hair followed him toward the center of the car. “Be a good sport and take a seat in the booth with Ronan.”
    There was a faint whoosh from the other end of the car, beyond the snack bar, and I saw that Floss Hair hadn’t come alone.
    Another blue suit had appeared. Like Floss Hair, he was quiet and impassive, but this guy was as bald as Mr. Clean. And also like Floss Hair, he was wielding something long, shiny, and sharp, with a fine silvery edge that caught the light.
    Greta sat down hard across from me, her phone forgotten in her hand. “What are they holding…?” she asked.
    “Swords,” I answered.

C H A PT E R 5 :
    PUSH COMES TO SHOVE
    “S padroons, to be specific,” Dawkins corrected. “Not to be technical and all, but accuracy is always nice.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bald man advancing his way. “Two against one?” he said to Floss Hair. “That’s hardly sporting.”
    Floss Hair didn’t answer, just leveled his weapon.
    “But why do they have swords?” Greta asked. “Isn’t that overkill for a couple of ticket thieves?”
    “We’re not ticket t h — ” I started, then corrected myself. “Okay, maybe Dawkins is, but I’m not. Anyway, those guys have nothing to do with that.”
    “So who are they?”
    I shrugged. “They’re…bad guys, I guess.”
    “You guess ?” she said. “Did the swords clue you in?”
    “Here’s a lesson for you, Ronan,” Dawkins interrupted. “A Blood Guard finds weapons in whatever he has at hand.” As Floss Hair rushed him, he swept the food tray upward. With a sharp crack , it knocked the