Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

Jessup—who by these days had been called the Comrade for so long, he could barely remember even having another name—stared at the door. He didn’t like the sounds coming from the other side.

  In his hands he held death. And she was beautiful. And she was necessary.

  He couldn’t allow visitors to just leave the Pit. They’d tell someone what they saw. They’d reveal this place to someone, and all the Comrade’s work would be undone.

  The weapon made easy work of most folks.

  He called her Móki.

  Móki was made from scrap he’d found on the site—a blade from the tail rotor of some long-gone helicopter. He’d come across it when he’d first explored the Pit, found it laying in a pile of scrap. It had met with something hard and immovable at some point, from the look of it, and its tip had snapped off. The stalk of the thing was still intact, and the Comrade had used a hacksaw to cut it down, then ground it with an angle grinder to get it into a decent shape for a handle.

  The result was about a three-foot-long blade, straight as an arrow until it ended in that jagged curve. It looked a bit like the sickle he’d had tattooed to his face. It looked thirsty for the blood of intruders.

  He loved it.

  And he used Móki for all sorts of things in the Pit. He always had it with him, though he did stash it in the truck when he made his book runs. Móki was noticeable. She called attention to herself and to him. That wouldn’t do, when trying to sneak books out of the library or bookstores or grocery stores. Attention was no good.

  Regardless, Móki was always close by. And she had seen a lot of use, inside and outside the Pit, over the decades. She had tasted plenty of blood and left plenty of cold behind.

  Right now he was dragging her sharpened tip along the surface of the door, the only barrier between him and the woman. He was letting the sound echo and hang in the darkness of the Pit, knowing that it would do some of his work for him.

  Fear was a good tool. It made people panic, made them do things they shouldn’t. If he couldn’t quite break through the door physically, he could reach the woman with that sound. Móki’s mewling for blood.

  But on the other side of the door, there’d been a racket he wasn’t expecting.

  It sounded like the woman was throwing things off of the shelves in there. Making a mess. A mess he’d have to clean up once he was done with her.

  If he was ever done with her.

  He pulled the bladed down the surface of the door one last time.

  Scraaaaaaape.

  And now he’d leave. He’d had enough. He needed to tend to some things elsewhere. And the girl wasn’t going anywhere. She might have locked him out, but he’d managed to lock her right back in.

  Stalemate.

  He tapped the tip of Móki on the door a few times, then turned and marched back down the corridor, letting the hook dangle at his side.

  He needed to get the truck unloaded and then do his rounds.

  The woman had gotten in here somehow, and he was going to figure out how, to make sure it didn’t happen again.

  He was just about to round a corner when he heard the voices.

  He felt his heart pounding, from his chest and all the way up into his temples.

  Did she bring people here?

  It was his fear. The one thing that made him afraid. And angry.

  He felt rage boiling. He felt the old call. He felt the weight of Móki in his hand, the press of it against his leg, the call for blood.

  Slowly, quietly, he moved to the corner and peered around.

  He could see their lights now—lanterns and flashlights, intruding on his precious darkness, hurting his eyes.

  He ran a finger over the curved edge of Móki, felt the jagged sharpness of her, and smiled as it sliced the tip of his finger. Blood dripped onto the blade, then onto the floor.

  His blood. The first feed.

  The next feed would be fresh and new, and Móki was sure to love it.

  Kotler was ahead of the others, using a flashlight to cast a wide circle ahead of him. This corridor was long, but there were many branches leading from it, deeper into the darkness of this place.

  They’d ridden an elevator to get down this far—something Agent Denzel had barely tolerated, with his claustrophobia. Neither Agent Barr nor Alex Kayne knew about Denzel’s phobia, but Kotler had watched his partner closely the whole ride down. Just being here, in the Pit, was putting a bit of strain on his friend. But he held up—he’d developed a few tricks, over the years. Some with Kotler’s help. He was getting through it.

  Still, Kotler was keeping an eye on his friend, just in case.

  Right now, however, he had both eyes fixed on every detail of the corridor stretching before him.

  Something had his intuition buzzing.

  He was hard pressed to say what it was—maybe he’d caught some barely audible sound, or seen some tiny movement out of the corner of his eye. Or maybe he was just feeling the pressure of being five miles below the mountain.

  That seemed unlikely, however.

  Unlike Denzel, Kotler had no fear of tight spaces. He’d spent the better part of his adult life, and a bit of his boyhood, exploring and spelunking and occasionally getting trapped in everything from natural caverns to ancient tombs. He couldn’t say he relished the experiences, exactly. But he did find the whole thing familiar at least.

  So he doubted that he was having any anxiety about being trapped down here. It seemed more likely that he’d subconsciously picked up on some queue.

  Maybe he’d caught a bit of Dr. Rivers’ trail?

  He glanced back down the corridor. True to his promise, he hadn’t wandered far. The rest of the group was standing and chatting, considering options. Denzel and Barr were comparing notes, trying to work out their next steps, choose their next direction. Kayne stood off to the side, her back to the boys and her eyes glued to her phone.

  Kotler knew she was doing something with QuIEK—but she looked for all the world like a sullen teenage girl just trying to get a signal so she could chat with her friends.

  He smiled and chuckled… and then suddenly he was grabbed and thrown to the floor.

  Kotler hit the concrete hard, but managed to get his hands under him. They smacked the concrete, jarring him and sending a wave of numbness up his right forearm.

  The flashlight went spinning down the side passage as Kotler rolled quickly onto his back.

  A man stood above him, disguised by the darkness until the rolling flashlight spun, casting a bright wash of light onto the man’s whole form.

  Kotler saw the face tattoo—the hammer and sickle.

  He had just enough time to register what it was, who this was, before noticing the man was raising some sort of wicked looking blade above his head.

  Kotler reacted, spinning on his back, kicking out his legs to entangle them with those of the man.

  As the blade arched downward, Kotler rolled, catching the man’s legs with his ankles. Kotler pulled his knees toward his chest, clipping the man in the back of his own knees and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  He was close. Too close.

  The man said nothing, made not even a grunt, but raised the curved blade once again.

  Now, less than a foot from Kotler, there was no avoiding what was coming next.

  The best Kotler could do was bring his arms up to try to protect his face, his neck, his chest. It wouldn’t matter. That… thing… in the man’s hand would tear into Kotler’s flesh.

  There would be blood. And pain. And possibly death.

  He waited for the blow.

  Instead, he felt a rush of wind, and opened his eyes to see that the man was now pinned to the floor, with a woman on top of him.

  Alex Kayne.

  The man made a noise then—a guttural sort of growl—and with a strength belied by his frame he managed to raise his arms and throw Kayne aside.

  She landed in a heap beside Kotler.

  The man rose again, raised the blade, an
d was about to make an end to one or the other of them.

  “Freeze!”

  The voice came with a blast of light from Agent Barr’s flashlight, and the man turned on him.

  With no hesitation or fear, with a speed that was frightening, the man spun on his heel, whipping the blade outward.

  Barr cried out, and a shot was fired, ricocheting wildly in a whine down the darkened corridor, disappearing into the guts of the mountain.

  The man with the weapon turned and ran, also disappearing into that darkness.

  Kotler scrambled to his feet and found the flashlight. He turned it in the direction the man had ran, and saw that there were dozens of side passages that way—side tunnels that would let someone escape in the maze of this place, untraceable. Especially if that someone happened to know these tunnels like the back of his hand.

  He could be anywhere by now.

  Kotler patted his coat, then reached inside. Holstered there was a 9mm Glock, issued to him by Historic Crimes with the very strict instructions that, as a civilian agent, he was never to pull it unless his life was in immediate danger.

  He decided this counted.

  “Roland!” Kotler shouted, over his shoulder. He was aiming the weapon, braced over his left wrist, while his left hand held the flashlight, aimed down the corridor. Still, no sign of movement.

  “I’m here, Kotler,” Denzel’s voice came back.

  Too quiet. Too calm.

  Kotler spun around, holding the flashlight out, angling it so that he wouldn’t blind anyone in the darkness.

  He saw Denzel and Kayne kneeling on the floor.

  Between them, as still as the air around them, was Agent Barr.

  Kotler moved forward, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the man with the blade wasn’t nearby, taking advantage of their distraction.

  When Kotler reached them, he let the 9mm and the flashlight drop to his side. There was enough light here to see what had happened.

  Agent Barr lay in a pool of his own blood, which was still pouring from a gash in his throat. His eyes wide, one hand laying loosely near the wound, on his collar bone.

  Still.

  Unbreathing.

  Dead.

  Kotler turned again, raised the light and the 9mm, aiming down the corridor. “What do we do?” he asked, his tone cold. He had thoughts about the answer to this question.

  Denzel took off his coat and lay it over Barr’s face, then stood. He unholstered his own weapon, gripping it so tight that Kotler was sure it would crumble to dust in his hands.

  “We hunt him,” Denzel said.

  Kotler nodded, then looked to Kayne.

  She was pale. There was blood on her arms, her face.

  “Al…” he’d been close to saying Alex.

  “Alicia,” he corrected.

  She didn’t look up at him.

  He glanced back to Denzel, then knelt beside Kayne.

  “Alex,” he whispered to her. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, looking up at him. Her eyes were brimmed with tears. “No. It’s… his blood. I… I couldn’t save him.”

  Kotler took in the scene now. She must have spotted that Barr was injured, had tried to staunch the bleeding with her hands. No use, Kotler knew. The wound had nicked the carotid artery. Barr had been dead in the time it had taken Kotler to get to his feet and draw his weapon. There would have been no way to save him.

  He put a hand on Kayne’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, then wiped her eyes against the upper sleeve of her coat. It smeared blood across her face. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, clenching her jaw and standing. “Be mad.”

  Kotler nodded, joining her.

  She had no weapon. Kotler might have thought she was innocent of the crimes for which she was accused, but even he hadn’t been willing to arm a fugitive.

  As he watched her, however, he realized she didn’t need a weapon. She’d taken on the man with the blade—Andrew Jessup, the Comrade—with nothing but her bare hands, and had come out in better shape than anyone else.

  She could take care of herself, Kotler realized. She didn’t need a weapon—she was a weapon.

  “Ok,” he said, turning and joining Denzel, the 9mm and flashlight raised. “Let’s go take down the Comrade.”

  8

  Clara had fought and struggled and cried with frustration for more than three hours, but she was finally making progress.

  The scraping had stopped, thank God.

  But she hadn’t.

  She had found a can with a pull top and had pulled the ring to reveal it was baked beans. She hated baked beans.

  But the prize wasn’t the meal—it was the can top.

  Bending it, using another can to pound it flat to get it into the right shape, she had painstakingly made a screwdriver.

  She’d cut herself—twice—which had led to profuse bleeding, making her work both slippery and painful. But she’d pushed through that pain, and now she had it. A tool—one that would get her out of here.

  She hoped. She prayed.

  In the bouncing green light of the computer monitor, she surveyed her work. The world’s ugliest screwdriver, to be sure. But it would do. It would have to do.

  She had put it in her pocket and scaled the shelves, then crawled her way to the grate. And for hours now she had worked at the screws, pressing with all her strength, pushing her makeshift screwdriver into the grooves of the first screw and turning.

  It didn’t want to budge. It was locked in tight.

  At first.

  It took much longer than she’d wanted but slowly, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, it finally started to budge, to turn. Her progress seemed excruciatingly slow, but it was moving.

  It was painful. The can lid was cutting into her hands, and she’d finally torn a piece of cloth from her blouse to use as a handle. That helped, but only barely.

  But the damned screw was turning.

  After more than an hour, the first screw fell free, clacking and clattering on the metal shelf, rolling away into the darkness. She heard it bounce from shelf to shelf as it fell, then the sound of it hitting the concrete floor.

  She laughed, but stifled it.

  Too insane. It sounded too insane.

  She took a shaky breath, felt her heart thumping hard enough she worried it would throw her off of the top shelf, and then got to work on the second screw.

  This one seemed more stubborn than the first. She pressed and turned, putting all the pressure she could into it, putting her entire body weight into it. Everything she had was focused on that tiny, slender piece of metal.

  And all… it had… to do… was… turn dammit!

  Nothing. No movement.

  She wept, moaning but stifling the sound. She fought the urge to fling the makeshift screwdriver into the darkness below.

  This was getting to her. It was too much.

  I’m going to die here!

  Again the moan rose in her throat, this time completely out of her control. There was no stifling it now, and she let her head drop to her knees, crouched there on the top shelf, scooting to lean back against the cinder block wall. Her only hope of escape stubbornly refused to budge, and she wasn’t sure there was anything left in her to make it happen.

  She sobbed.

  This went on for some time—she wasn’t sure how long. She had stopped paying attention to the clock which only reminded her of how dark this place was, how trapped she was.

  But when the panic subsided, she sniffed, wiped at her nose with her sleeve, and started her work again.

  More time. Hours? Maybe. Still nothing.

  Out of frustration she screamed, raging at the screw, jamming the makeshift screwdriver into it and putting everything she had in trying to turn it—to no effect.

  In utter frustration she reached out and grabbed the edges of the grate, working her fingers into the slender, tight gap she’d created by removing the first screw.


  It hurt. The cuts on her fingers reopened, and blood oozed outward. The pressure of the metal grate biting into her skin was excruciating. She felt the edge of the cinderblock wall scrape her cuticles and knuckles. The pain fueled her anger, she screamed louder.

  Suddenly, she realized, she had her fingers far enough into the gap that she could get a grip on it.

  She pulled. She braced her feet against the cinderblock wall and pulled with her entire body.

  The aluminum of the grate bent easily, swinging outward until she had it bent completely back against the wall. The stubborn screw still held, but she didn’t care. She laughed, not even bothering to keep it in check, even as it sounded insane in her own ears.

  She had her opening.

  She tested it, reached inside, felt around. There was a sharp bend going upward, about four feet back. She could make that. If she crawled in on her back, she could sit up in that space. It would be a little claustrophobic, but she’d fit.

  She did this, sliding in arms first, and then using her hands to help move herself forward the final few inches. She reached into the gap above, braced her hands against either side of the shaft, and then wriggled her way into a sitting position, getting her feet into the grate. From there she worked her way up to a standing position, scraping her knees on the bend of the shaft but otherwise getting upright easily.

  There was nothing but pitch blackness here. She couldn’t even see the light from the screensaver anymore—that damnable light that had marked her captivity with an eerie, uncaring glow—and suddenly she missed it.

  She felt the fear rising, felt the scream, just about to start. She was freaking out—panicking, about to have a full on anxiety attack.

  She stopped. She took several deep breaths. She calmed herself, resolved herself.

  She’d have to feel her way from here, that was all. That was easy. That was ok.

  It was that, or go back down.

  Go back to that room, to that bouncing green clock, to that scraping sound.

  Back to being trapped.

  Back to being a prisoner.

  No, she decided.

  It was firm. It was bold. She was afraid, so very afraid. But she would do this.

  She took another deep breath, felt around in the shaft above her, and then pressed her feet and hands against metal, lifting herself upward.