It was at times like this that Jim Raynor, former marine lance corporal, proud citizen of the Confederacy and erstwhile farm boy, felt most alive. At the speed at which he was urging the vulture, the wind cooled his face so that the oppressive heat vanished. He felt like a wolf hunting down prey, except the purpose of today's adventure was not the death of a living being but the death of the empty state of Raynor's and Tychus's wallets. This was a cargo train, not a passenger train, and inside its silvery innards was—if Tychus's tip was right, and Jim had every reason to believe it would be—a very lovely, very large safe filled with Confederate credits.

"Why, it's a rescue mission, Jim," Tychus had rumbled, his blue eyes dancing with good humor as he had filled Raynor in on the plan. "Those poor creds—they'd just be condemned to lining the pockets of some Old Families who don't need any more money. Or else put to some nefarious scheme that could hurt somebody. It's our duty—hell, it's our calling—to liberate them creds to where they could do something that really mattered."