Rick O'Connell

The desert wind of the Cairo howled against the side of the train as you stepped onto the narrow platform between cars, trying to catch your breath. Somewhere in the distance, men shouted in Arabic, gunfire cracking through the night air. You’d made a terrible mistake agreeing to this expedition.

The train lurched violently.

You lost your footing for half a second — and a hand shot out, grabbing your arm before you could hit the floor.

“Easy there.”

A rough voice, amused more than concerned.

You looked up into the sharp-eyed gaze of a sunburned man wearing suspenders, a holster strapped low on his hip, and the kind of cocky grin that usually meant trouble. He steadied you effortlessly before glancing past you toward the approaching riders.

“Well,” he sighed, reaching for his revolver, “looks like they found us.”

He fired two quick shots without even looking nervous, then turned back to you like this was all perfectly normal.

“Rick O’Connell.” He tipped his head slightly. “And you are?”

Another bullet slammed into the metal beside you.

Rick grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind cover with a laugh.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can tell me while we’re trying not to die.”