by Edwin Dasso
She might end up trapped in this vent.
That thought sent a fresh panic through her guts. She might end up dying in this narrow, confined space, buried under five miles of New Mexico stone, never to be seen or heard from again. A rotting, moldering corpse no one would ever notice. A smell in the air conditioning that would fade with time.
She might.
But she might not.
She might, instead, find some way out.
And that was all the encouragement, all the hope, that she needed.
She climbed higher and higher, pressing against either side of the shaft, using friction to keep moving upward until she found another shaft running back in the same direction as the room below.
Was this it? Was this a way out?
She felt her heart thump, and squeezed herself into the shaft, moving forward, the anticipation—the hope—building.
If this wasn’t the way out, it was least a way to leave that room behind. That scraping behind.
She crawled in complete darkness, with nothing but her hands and her hope guiding her.
She wasn’t sure where this would take her, or what she would find when she got there. But it was her own choice, her own direction. Whatever happened next, at least she had some control.
She crawled on.
9
Symon and Mayher had been told to wait.
Ricky Greer—Andrew Jessup’s former landlord—was in with his doctor. They’d be alerted when he was free to receive visitors.
They waited, though Symon didn’t feel altogether comfortable.
This place reminded him of the senior care facility where his grandparents had died. He remembered visiting them, as a kid. The smell of places like this—a cloying mixture of disinfectant and cafeteria food—always bothered him. He knew it wasn’t quite rational, but the smell reminded him of something sick in the air.
Death in the air.
And the people, the elderly in these places, were always a little too eager to talk to a young kid. They would corner him, smiling and talking to him in strange, sing-song tones, as if he were two, not twelve. It was like they saw in him something they’d lost, something they were trying to reclaim. Like they wanted to suck the youth from him, and return to a better time in their lives.
Symon wasn’t a fan of these places. And when his grandparents had died, he’d sworn them off. His father had passed several years ago, leaving only his mother. She was approaching the age when she’d need care, and Symon had already arranged for live-in help. It would cost him half his paycheck each month, but he’d sooner live out of his car than see his mother in a place like this.
“Agents?” a nurse called to them, then gestured for them to follow.
Symon and Mayher were led down a corridor lined with doors and various pieces of medical equipment. Nurses moved at officious paces, orderlies pushed carts carrying everything from food to cleaning supplies. The occasional doctor stepped out into the hall, checking charts, jotting notes, and moving on to the next.
Eventually Symon and Mayher were ushered into Ricky Greer’s room.
The man looked like he was about to pass at any second. He looked like death on pause.
Thin to the point of his bones showing through his skin, his head all but bald, wispy threads of grey hair combed loosely over to the side—Greer wore an oxygen mask and had an IV drip embedded in his arm. He was pale to the point of being blue. And though his eyes did still have some brightness, Symon thought it might be due more to whatever chemical cocktail was flowing into the man’s veins. He was lucid by prescription. Possibly the only thing keeping him from drifting away in his sleep.
They had been briefed on Greer’s condition beforehand, but it was still tough to see. Too familiar. Too much like nightmares Symon still had, his grandfather trussed up in tubes and wires, a thin hospital gown providing nothing more than pitiful modesty, and even that veil pierced as nurses roughly moved him, shift his position, removed all dignity from his final hours.
Symon took a quick, deep breath, quickly clearing his throat, steeling himself. This was not the time for his personal garbage. They had a job to do here.
“Mr. Greer,” Symon said, “thank you for agreeing to see us.”
Greer was sitting up, and he nodded without quite looking at them. His eyes looked deep and dark, but there was some spark there. He finally glanced their way, having huffed oxygen for a moment, as if preparing himself for what came next. He reached an age-spotted hand upward, pulling down the oxygen mask.
“You’re here…” he gasped a breath, coughed, shook his head. “You’re here about… the Comrade.”
“Andrew Jesup,” Mayher nodded.
“Did you… find him?” Greer asked.
Mayher shook her head. “Not yet. We’re hoping you can help with that.”
Greer shook his head as well. “Haven’t seen him in… more than twenty years. Guy still… owes me money.” He laughed at this last bit, which turned into a coughing fit. He pushed the oxygen mask back over his face and inhaled in ragged, rattling breaths until the coughing and wheezing subsided.
“Don’t ever… smoke,” Greer warned, shaking his head as he pulled the mask back down.
“Mr. Greer,” Symon said, “you told the police that you found Jesup’s apartment ransacked. Do you recall whether anyone had reason to attack or abduct him?”
Greer laughed again, which in turn made him cough. He shook his head as the phlegmy sound of the laughter faded. “Everyone,” he said. “Everyone had… a reason. I had a reason. Anyone who ever… met the commie bastard.”
“Was it all about his Communism?” Mayher asked. “People hated him for that?”
“That was part of it,” Greer said, taking a moment to suck air from the mask. “But the guy was… just a creep. Scared people. I was ready to kick him out, when he… disappeared. I figured he probably just skipped out without paying the rent. But I found out… that if I filed a police report, I could collect insurance. So, that’s what I did.”
“So you don’t suspect any sort of foul play,” Symon said.
Greer waved a hand, dismissive. “Nah. If anyone was doing something… wrong, it was the Comrade himself. Guy was a… thief.”
“You had proof of that?” Mayher asked.
“Stole stuff all the time,” Greer said. He took another hit of oxygen. “My other tenants… used to complain about it. Stupid stuff, though. They’d come home and find that somebody broke in… and took all their toilet paper. Stuff like that. But he was stealing gas out of their cars, too. Caught him… on that one.”
Mayher exchanged a glance with Symon.
Symon nodded. This gelled with what Alfred Cox had told them.
The conversation went on like this for several more minutes until a nurse eventually came in to tell them their time was up. Doctor’s orders.
They nodded and made ready to leave.
“Wait… a minute,” Greer gasped. “Just another thing. Just… remembered it. About a… year ago, I saw him. Swore it was him.”
“Saw him?” Symon asked. “Where?”
“In town. Leaving the library. Had a bunch of books and dumped them into that old pickup of his. ’S’how I… knew it was him.” Greer coughed and took another hit of oxygen.
“I was just turning around, was going to stop him… talk to him. Ask him for the money he owed me. Had… hospital bills to pay.” He motioned at the room around him. “But he got into the pickup and drove off. Bat outta hell. I followed him for a bit, until he turned off the main road, heading toward the mountains. Last time I ever saw him.”
“Do you know where he turned?” Mayher asked.
Greer thought for a moment, then gave directions and road numbers. “It wasn’t no official road,” he said. “Just a dirt track. Used to be… military. Old base, I think. Fences are gone, but the road… still there.”
Mayher was taking notes, and Symon was about to ask a follow-up question when the nurse insisted it
was time to leave.
They did so, and when they were back in their car they started talking over what they’d learned.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt that Andrew Jesup is the man with the face tattoo, from Dr. Rivers’ text message,” Mayher said.
“Agreed,” Symon said.
“So, what next?” Mayher asked. “This isn’t exactly a case-breaking lead. We pretty much already knew everything Greer had to tell us.”
Symon was thinking. Mayher was right. Confirming Jesup’s identity wasn’t much of an accomplishment. Their conversation with Greer didn’t give them anything new to work from. It really just left Symon and Mayher at a dead end of sorts. Nothing much to follow up on.
“Greer said Jesup left the main road and drove into the mountains,” Symon said.
Mayher nodded.
“We’re thinking that Jesup is confirmed as the face tattoo,” Symon replied. “So we can assume that he was headed for the Pit.”
Mayher was studying him, then nodded slowly. “If you say so.”
“I don’t see anything to do but follow up on this lead,” Symon said.
Mayher blinked. “What lead? You… you mean go to the Pit?”
“Into the mountains. Jesup’s last known location.”
“Yeah, a year ago,” Mayher said.
Symon shrugged. “We go where the evidence takes us. Right now, this is all we got. We’ve followed cold trails before.”
“I can’t think of any that were much colder,” Mayher said.
Symon looked at her. “You don’t have to go.”
She thought about this. “Are you nuts? Of course I have to go. Someone has to back you up.”
Symon smiled, then turned their car around.
“Where are we going?” Mayher asked.
“To get something more appropriate for going off-road,” Symon replied.
10
Agent Denzel hadn’t been kidding.
Kayne followed along behind the agent and Dr. Kotler, both men moving in unison, weapons raised, flashlights casting beams out ahead of them. Denzel was on the left and Kotler was on the right, and each took whatever corridor came up on their side, turning into it, covered by the other.
They didn’t go far. Just a few feet. Far enough to get an idea, to see if they could spot the Comrade.
She had to admit, it was impressive to see them in action. They obviously knew and trusted each other at a deep level—knew what the other was thinking, what the other needed. For an archaeologist, Kayne thought Kotler was pretty good at this kind of thing. But then, that made sense.
She’d seen everything there was on file about Dan Kotler. His past. The training he’d gone through. The secret order in which his grandfather had been a high-ranking member.
There was a lot more to Dan Kotler than mere archaeology.
Kayne lingered back as the two men scanned and explored ahead of them. She watched closely, paying attention, picked out details, trying to keep her mind off of all the blood.
She hadn’t been able to save him.
Agent Barr had bled out under her hands, as she’d frantically pressed his neck, trying to staunch the bleeding any way she could.
She could tell right away that it wasn’t enough.
There had been blood on her hands before. The blood of men who had tried to hurt her, tried to use her. She knew when death was inevitable.
She wouldn’t let herself think about it.
She followed along, letting the two men ahead of her scan and clear their path. They would run out of corridor soon. The Comrade had to have taken one of these side passages, to escape deeper into the mountain. He knew this compound far better than they did. He would know where to hide, how to keep out of their reach. This was going to be a long, dangerous search.
Kotler and Denzel were ahead of her when she heard something.
It came from one of the side corridors—an odd sound, nothing like she was expecting. It was the sort of noise metal made when flexing.
She turned her flashlight on, shined it down the corridor, and noted that a series of exposed air vents and conduits were suspended from the ceiling in that direction.
“Guys,” she said, too quietly. “Guys!”
Kotler and Denzel stopped and turned, their flashlights nearly blinding her.
“Something down this corridor,” she said, shading her eyes with one hand while pointing her own flashlight in the direction of the sound.
They moved toward her. “You’re sure?” Kotler asked. “We just cleared that one.”
“I… heard something. It came from the vents, I think.”
They all entered the corridor, watchful, keeping their eyes roving. They stopped at the nearest conduit, each raising their lights toward the ceiling.
The sound came again—a flexing, echoing sound, in the distance.
“I’d recognize that anywhere,” Kotler said. “Someone is in that vent.”
“The Comrade?” Denzel asked.
Kotler shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look at it,” he shined his light along the conduit, and stepped under it to illuminate it from the other side. “Someone small. Lean. It’s probably Dr. Rivers.”
Kayne felt her heart pound. Rivers was in the vents?
Kayne had spent plenty of time crawling around in air vents herself, evading capture, infiltrating the offices of a target. It wasn’t quite the experience that movies and television made it out to be. In most cases, air vents and duct work were far too small for anyone to move around in. Someone slight and trim might be able to do it in industrial systems, such as the one in this base. But there were dangers and problems to deal with, even if you fit.
She glanced around her at the pressing darkness. The entire building was locked down, lights off. It was as dark as a well inside those conduits. Rivers had to be feeling her way around, blind. And every move meant facing unseen danger.
She had to be scared out of her mind.
But more than that…
“At least she’s safe,” Kayne said, relief in her voice.
“Safe?” Denzel asked.
“She’s right,” Kotler said. “If Rivers is crawling around in the ducts, it means she’s alive, and the Comrade can’t get to her. For now.”
“So what do we do?” Denzel asked. “Can we contact her? Is she close?”
Kayne shook her head. “I don’t think so. The sound—I think it’s just echoing to this point. She may be in the area, but she’s not here. And if we try to contact her, it may just call her location out to the Comrade.”
Denzel thought about this, then nodded. “Alright. We still need to find her, make contact with her. But the danger is that the Comrade is around somewhere, armed and dangerous.”
“We should split up,” Kotler said.
“Not on your life,” Denzel replied. “We’ve already lost Barr…”
“Roland, it’s the only way,” Kotler insisted. “We have to keep searching for the Comrade and take him out. But we need to make contact with Rivers, to make sure she’s safe and to get her out of here. I don’t see how we do both, if we stay together.”
Denzel was again shaking his head.
“I’ll go for Rivers,” Kayne said.
“You’re unarmed,” Denzel said. “And also, no.”
“We’ll both go,” Kotler said, holding up his weapon demonstrably. “Roland…”
Denzel had a sour expression on his face. “Kotler, I swear to God, you plan this stuff.”
Kotler chuckled. “Please,” he said, “I’m not much of a planner. And I’m not in any rush to meet Mr. Choppy Blade Thingy in the dark again.”
“That makes two of us,” Kayne said.
“But you know this is our best shot,” Kotler continued.
“We have no comms,” Denzel replied.
Kayne took a breath and stepped forward. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.”
She held up her phone.
“No signal in here,” D
enzel replied.
“There is,” Kayne said. “It just isn’t what you’re expecting. I found it when we first got here. Sort of an ancestor to LTE. I have a program on my phone that can open it up for us to use for communication. It’ll allow us to stay in contact.”
Denzel looked from her to Kotler, then back again. “I knew it,” he said.
Kayne felt something chill within her.
“Knew… what?” Kotler asked.
Denzel nodded to Kayne. “Her. She’s not Alicia Carter, is she? That’s Alex Kayne.”
Kotler and Kayne exchanged glances, then looked back to Denzel.
“Roland…” Kotler started.
“Save it. I suspected it before we even left,” Denzel said, scowling. “But I wasn’t positive.” He squared off with Kayne. “I’ve read your file. And I’ve talked to Dr. Ludlum about you. I know who you are, and I know that you’re operating as a CI for Historic Crimes. But you know… when this is over… I don’t have a choice.”
Kayne studied him, then pursed her lips, nodding. “I know.”
Denzel glared at Kotler. “And you knew,” he said.
Kotler shrugged. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Kotler…”
“But,” Kotler interrupted. “If this is Alex Kayne, so far she’s been an asset. She saved me from the Comrade. She tried to save Agent Barr’s life. And she’s the one who heard Rivers moving around in the duct work. I’m not sure a fugitive would do any of those things, personally. So really, Roland, unless you’ve made a positive ID…”
He stopped, waiting.
Kayne felt her heart pounding.
Denzel looked from each of them, then made a disgusted sound. “Loopholes,” the agent growled. “You’re always falling back on loopholes.”
He turned to Kayne, looming over her, his jaw tight. “Of course… I have to be mistaken. I have no way of making a positive ID at this time. So of course, I apologize… Dr. Carter.”
He glared at Kotler.
“Of course,” Kayne said, affecting more courage than she actually felt. “So now that we’ve settled that, one sec…”
