by Andrew Mayne
Solar pokes his head under the towel, startling me. “What have you got?”
“And this really doesn’t look suspicious.”
“They’ll just assume we’re doing drugs. No big deal.”
I hold my phone up for him to see. “See the outflow? That could be something.”
“Could be a sewer. It’s also not connected to his property.”
I drop our towel tent and stare at the area where the outflow occurs. “No . . . but who’s to say how far in it goes?”
“Anything is possible when enough money is involved.” Solar reels in his line and starts the boat.
We go around the island to the area where I spotted the outflow. It’s a less developed section of the island, where mangroves and weeds hang over the seawall.
Solar checks his depth gauge. “Interesting. It’s twenty feet here. That seems unusual.”
“Not if it’s been dredged.” I point to a superyacht moored farther up the island. “They do that so you can park those things.”
I strip off my T-shirt and jeans shorts, down to my bathing suit, and grab my fins and mask out of the gear bag I brought with me.
“Hold up there,” says Solar. “What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Have a look.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a smart idea.” Solar glances back at Bonaventure’s estate. “It looks a little suspicious . . .”
“Sloan McPherson 101: if you think something’s there, get it before someone else does.”
I dive into the water before he can protest or point out that my improvised adage makes absolutely no sense.
I make it halfway to the seawall, surface, and take a breath. Solar has his rod in hand and is pretending he’s fishing again. I take a quick breath and go back under.
From thirty feet away, I see a dark rectangle about five feet below the low-water mark. It makes me think of the hangar bay on a spaceship.
When I get closer, I spot a metal grille covering the pitch-black tunnel. The bars are spaced fairly narrowly . . . but maybe wide enough for me to slip through.
I surface again, give Solar a thumbs-up, and dive back down before he can stop me.
Time to find out what’s at the other end.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
UNDERCURRENT
My chest, not exactly a buoyancy device but not exactly a plank, causes me more trouble than I expect as I try to slide through the bars. The rusted metal squeezes me and scrapes my back as I try to suck in my upper torso without losing any air—which is basically impossible.
I manage to get myself through and realize how ill prepared I am for this adventure. No tanks. No buoyancy compensator. Just my fins and a mask; this isn’t one of my better-planned dives.
Am I showing off for Solar?
Obviously. That’s been a trait of mine since before I could talk. I was always looking to show the men around me that I was every bit as capable. Which would be fine if I had stopped at some point and told myself mission accomplished. Although I’m the youngest, I’m the alpha wolf around my brothers. Dad certainly gives me room, and Run . . . well, he treats me more like an equal than any other woman he’s known.
Yet, here I am, sliding into a dark tunnel, trying to show Dirty Harry that Sloan can play rough like the best of them.
Problem is, it’s gonna get real rough if I can’t get back out and drown inside.
I slide my hips past the grate and turn around to examine how it’s attached—something I should have done before squeezing through.
Thick metal hinges run along the top, bolted into the concrete. At the base there’s a bolt with a thick, waterproof padlock.
Okay, this is looking suspicious—that and the fact that this underwater channel seems wide enough for Winston’s brainchild to fit through.
I’ve been diving in Florida waters all my life, including a few sewers, and I’ve never seen anything like this. Although I haven’t exactly been looking. For all I know, this could be a new storm-drain construction technique.
Enough with the theories. I don’t need to nearly drown twice in two days. I push off from the gate and swim deeper into the tunnel, keeping my arms in front of me.
Running into a wall at top speed could knock me unconscious—which would be fatal underwater. Although I have no idea what’s in here, I can cross a few hazards off the list.
Sharks would hate it in here. An alligator wouldn’t like the salt water. A crocodile would find it too confining—I hope. Large sport fish would avoid this too.
That leaves barracuda, eels, octopuses, groupers, and a dozen other things I can’t think of right now. I really, really should have brought a flashlight.
My hand touches a wall, and I realize that I’ve gone sideways, or the tunnel curves. I’m not sure which. I’ve been busy counting my kicks. Five so far, which means about twenty feet.
I glance back at the opening and spot a blue rectangle of light. Twenty feet sounds about right. There’s still enough light for me to see the bottom.
Something orange lies below me. I reach down and pick it up. It’s a lead diving weight. Interesting.
I’m not sure why someone would dump that here. It might have been ballast for the sub. The craft would come in buoyant if empty and need to be weighted down. You’d need a lot more than one weight, but it’s a possibility.
I drop the weight and continue kicking, keeping track of how far I can go before I have to turn back. Unlike the last time I dived, I was able to get a full breath. I’m good for a few more minutes if I don’t exert too much.
I kick another ten strokes and find myself in complete darkness. I still feel calm, though, so I keep going.
My body keeps floating upward, so I use my hands to skim the top of the passage.
Ack. Something just slipped past my leg.
It’s called a fish, Sloan. The ocean is full of them.
There’s practically nothing here that could kill me. Maybe some flesh-eating bacteria they have no cure for, but nothing imminently dangerous, I think.
FUCK! What is that?
My fingers touched something . . .
Breathe, Sloan.
Um, bad advice, self. Stay calm.
Touch it again.
Wet denim. Kind of squishy.
Dead body.
Damn.
I can’t pull it out of here. I need to go back and tell Solar. Let’s just do a quick check to be sure.
Yep. That’s an ankle and a shoe.
Ugh. Normally I wear gloves when I do this.
All right, time to turn around . . . Wait. Is that a light ahead?
Snap-judgment time. It’s a hundred feet back to the grille, and there’s a light ten feet ahead. What do you do?
The smart thing is to go back to the boat and have Solar call the police.
Then why am I swimming toward the light?
Dumb girl. Dumb, dumb girl.
The passage’s ceiling has changed from concrete to metal. It feels like corrugated aluminum.
I slide under the gap in the ceiling from which the light is emanating. It’s from a bulb overhead, which I can see through a grated cover.
This is some kind of underground loading dock.
I push against the metal grate. It gives only a little. Through a gap on one side, I see a chain crossing the hatch. They lock this from above.
What the hell are they afraid of? The Creature from the Black Lagoon sneaking inside?
I push again. It barely moves.
My lungs are screaming. I really need to start carrying around an emergency oxygen tank strapped to my leg—or move to the desert.
Okay, think. It’s about 120 feet from here to the opening—which I have to squeeze through. Past a bloated corpse.
I just gagged and lost a mouthful of air. No time to think. Do something.
This tunnel is, what? Five feet tall?
I push against the roof and extend my legs to the bottom. Yep. Five feet.
Pla
nt your feet, spread your hands. Push, bitch! Push!
My thighs explode as I try to move the heavens and earth at the same time.
I’m beginning to gag. My reptile brain is telling me to open my mouth.
PUSH!
Crack.
The metal door gives way and flies upward as the chain breaks.
My head surfaces, and I grab a mouthful of air, then the metal door slams back down on my head, knocking me back underwater.
Fucking gravity.
Stars.
Pain.
Get out.
I push the door up again and drag myself out of the tunnel, flopping onto the opened door . . . and feel something slice into my leg. I gasp for air, trying not to black ou—
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
KEEL
My head hits the trapdoor as I roll onto it, and salt water sloshes into my mouth. I taste my own blood.
I glance down at my leg—there’s a narrow red gash where the edge of the grate sliced into it. It’s not too deep, just long.
I’m in the bottom of a concrete pit that rises at least four feet above me. I could easily climb out if I wasn’t feeling so woozy, but I have enough trouble pushing myself upright.
Something cold and metal touches my back, and I’m jolted with adrenaline. I turn around and find a chain hanging from an overhead lift.
I grasp it and start to pull myself out of the pit. After a few seconds of climbing and wincing, I roll onto the cold concrete floor of the bay.
At least I’m not going to drown. I start to stand, and my foot slips in my own blood. If I don’t fix that, I’ll bleed out.
The bay above the pit is spartan and about the size of a one-car garage.
This is where Bonaventure keeps his cargo before loading it into the Kraken . . .
This is where I’m going to die if I don’t fix my leg.
At the far end, next to the stairs leading out of here, there’s a row of metal shelves. I stumble over, look through a cardboard box, and find a white T-shirt.
It takes me a couple of attempts to tear the hem, but I manage to rip it open and use the fabric as an impromptu bandage on my gash.
The bleeding slows to a trickle, and I feel comfortable enough to walk and find out what’s at the top of the stairs.
While I’m afraid it might lead directly to Bonaventure’s guards, there’s no way in hell I’m going back the way I came. My best chance of survival is to make a run for the nearest exit.
Hopefully they’re watching for people sneaking in, not escaping.
As I’m about to go up, I notice an odd panel on the wall. I slide it open and find a foot-wide tunnel of plastic pipe that extends up and down out of my sight. No time to inspect that. I have to keep moving.
Thankful for handrails, I take the steps slowly. There’s no light in the corridor, only the glow from the overhead light in the bay. At the top of the stairs I see a faint line at what seems to be the bottom of a door.
I reach the last step and put my ear to the door. Silence. Maybe there’s a chance after all?
If I make it to the street, there’s no way Bonaventure’s guards are going to risk getting caught on camera dragging me back here. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The question foremost in my mind is how the hell did the feds miss an entire submarine bay under the man’s house? You’d think they might notice something like this.
I turn the knob slowly and pull the door toward me after realizing that it doesn’t push.
Inside is another dark room. This one is the size of a closet and has a giant water heater in the middle, blocking the way out.
All right . . . ?
There’s no way I can squeeze my body around it. What’s going on?
Let’s think this through . . . Bonaventure doesn’t want people looking for the bathroom accidentally stumbling into his secret submarine lair. You’d put something in front of it—like a giant water heater. That means it probably moves . . .
I wrap my arms around the base of the cylinder and lift, twisting as I strain. Some kind of release lever clicks, and the whole contraption rises into the ceiling and stays there.
“Holy cow,” I mumble, impressed by the engineering. This is some Batcave-level stuff here.
I don’t have time to stop and admire the workmanship. If they didn’t hear me coming in through the hatch, this had to make a noise or trigger an alarm.
I turn the knob on the next door and burst into an outer hallway. Empty. The floor is bare concrete, and the walls are unpainted drywall.
I turn and spot another staircase going up. Most of Turtle Isle is around thirty feet above sea level. I should be reaching the surface soon.
I go up the second set of stairs, prepared to find myself in another empty corridor smelling of concrete and dust.
Did I die back there? Is this how hell works?
I’m right, except this hall reveals sunlight ahead and to my right. I run down the hallway and enter a large room with blinds covering windows on either side.
There’s nobody here.
I take a peek through the blinds and realize the source of my confusion. Bonaventure’s house is down the street. This isn’t even a separate building on his estate; I’m in an entirely different part of the neighborhood.
Clever bastard. That’s why the police couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t anything to be found.
This house probably belongs to a separate owner completely unconnected to him. The feds wouldn’t search here if they had no reason to.
Speaking of cops, Solar has to be worried sick about me. I run to the opposite side of the room and spot him still on the boat.
I try tapping, but he’s too far away.
Think, Sloan.
I run upstairs and find a bedroom that faces the bay and walk out to the balcony.
I wave, but he doesn’t see me. I run back into the unfinished bathroom and find a mirrored medicine cabinet lying atop a crude sink.
I can take it with me since it hasn’t been mounted yet.
Back on the balcony, I use the cabinet mirror to reflect the sun back at George. It takes about three seconds before he catches the reflection and realizes it’s me.
He makes some hand gestures, pointing to the street.
Does he want me to go there? Why doesn’t he just pull the boat up? I furiously point to the seawall farther up the island from this house and run back down to the first floor.
I open a sliding glass door and run out on the patio. George hasn’t moved the boat. He’s just standing there with his fishing rod, watching.
What the hell, George? I’m about to point to where he should pick me up, but I check up when I hear the sound of boots stomping on grass.
“Freeze! Police!” shouts a hyperaggressive voice.
Before I’m tackled to the ground, I spot at least a half dozen armed officers in full body armor.
George continues to ignore me as I’m restrained and slapped into handcuffs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DREDGE
I’m scared. This interrogation room isn’t in the federal building in Palm Beach, and it’s not the FBI, DEA, or sheriff’s office. I have no idea where I am.
After cuffing me on the lawn, the Palm Beach police, who arrested me, kept me down until a paramedic came and patched up my leg.
A green raincoat was thrown over my swimsuit, and I was shoved into the back of an SUV with blacked-out windows. A metal divider separated me from the driver, and another partition blocked the rear of the vehicle. The seat was the same hard plastic they use in the back of police cars.
It was a vehicle designed to transport suspects without letting them know where they’re going. Nobody tugged a hood over my head, but it was the same result. After a thirty-minute drive, we pulled into a parking garage, and two armed guards wearing full body armor took me up a service elevator and down a hall into this room.
This room . . . with its black metal walls. It’s like Dart
h Vader’s bathroom—minus the toilet.
My best guess is that it’s some spooky, federal-level detention center. Could these be the DIA contractors George mentioned? It’s the kind of place you take suspected terrorists, Russian spies, or heads of cartels.
What worries me the most is that I have zero idea who’s in charge. You hear about special CIA and FBI detention centers—and I know they even exist in our country. It’s not always that sinister. Some suspects are extra risk. Sometimes you need to interrogate someone away from where their friends know they can be found.
And sometimes this kind of place can be the waystation to another, longer-term secret prison. That kind of thing used to be crazy—then September 11 happened.
Am I being paranoid and freaked out? Hell, yes.
Nobody has spoken a word to me since I was caught—technically I was never even arrested. I’m pretty sure it’s not because they forgot.
The door opens, and two men enter. One is a white guy with short, prematurely graying hair. The other is black with a shaved head. Both appear to be in their early thirties and are wearing suits. Although they’re dressed like stockbrokers, they move like they’re ex-military.
“Sloan McPherson?” says the white guy. “I’m Chris.” His tone is clinical. “This is Dr. Pierson.”
I want to ask them questions, but I’m afraid if I start talking, I’ll slip up. I keep my mouth shut.
“Are you Sloan McPherson?” asks Pierson.
“I want my lawyer.”
“It’s a simple question. Are you Sloan McPherson?”
I give him silence.
Chris turns to him. “Are you satisfied?”
Pierson pulls a sheet of paper from a folder and writes on it as he says, “Subject was found trespassing in a state of undress, is uncooperative or unable, and refuses to answer basic questions. Recommending psychiatric care until further notice.”
“What the fuck? Are you Baker Acting me? You can’t just do that!” They’re declaring me crazy so they can hold me in a medical facility.
Pierson slides the sheet of paper over to Chris and leaves without saying anything else.
Chris reads it over, then lifts it so I can see the text clearly. “You understand what this is?”
