by S. D. Perry
* * *
Shots rolled out of the tunnels, from deep in the maze. Sergei counted six. He thought he heard shouting. Harper? The echoes distorted everything but it had sounded deep. A few dozen bats came up from the labyrinth and flew away toward the drop.
The fuck. Sergei took a few steps into the southern tunnel. “Commander?”
He waited. Nothing. He was at the edge of the great winding darkness, could feel the weight of its empty silence and the secret life that crawled through the black muddy holes. He couldn’t hear anything but the whisper of an echo, the scream of a lonely demon.
Sergei turned and started walking north, quickly, his body moving before he realized he’d decided. Koboshi, Byers, and Alanis were probably here by now. He would confirm, so that he’d have something to report when the commander and Mitchell came out. The Dozen were a tight outfit, orders were fixed, but Harper expected his A team to use their heads, to take the initiative when it came to keeping operations smooth. Confirming that everyone was standing by, that was the kind of thing that kept things smooth, was it not? That was what he told himself, and he was only hurrying because he had left his post and shouldn’t be away for long, not because there was anything creeping along behind him in the dark, silently reaching out with spindly claws to tap him on the shoulder.
The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and he didn’t look back, there was no reason to look back.
Sergei was more than halfway back to the drop when he heard what sounded like a truck’s engine, some mechanical noise from the world above. The sound was like music, and made the cold, ugly silence of the caverns behind him all the more horrid.
He stumbled forward, gasping—and then he heard the shots, ahead, on the surface.
Sergei froze, trying to count, but there were two nines firing: four and then a blur, four, five more?
Are they shooting the hostages?
There was one more shot… and then nothing.
“Reddy?” Sergei’s voice came out in a strangled whisper. “Reddy, come in.”
His own voice whispered back at him, and Sergei couldn’t stand it for another second. He spun around, the Springfield up, his lamp pushing the blackness back. There was nothing behind him but cold shitty rocks, dirt and bugs.
Reddy didn’t answer. Sergei tried again, and then open called. Nobody answered. There wasn’t even static, and he knew for a fact that he was close enough to get that much. He turned back toward the exit, but didn’t move.
There was no way the men up top would have killed their insurance without a valid reason. Harper would be furious. With the backup lost, if Croft got out, she’d be gone. The only valid reason therefore was if the hostages were shooting back.
Impossible. Even if they’d somehow gotten free and armed themselves, he would have heard more than two weapons firing. There were five Trinity men up there.
And two prisoners. You thought you heard shots earlier. What if that was the boyfriend and the pilot escaping, and what you just heard was the rest of the Dozen going down?
An unlikely scenario, but the night seemed full of them. Assuming the worst was a handy survival tactic.
Go closer, try again. At least you’ll be out of this fucking cave.
And if it’s true? If there are now enemies waiting at the drop? They’ll pick you off the second you step out of the tunnel.
As much as he desperately wanted to be out, he couldn’t risk it. Inside the dig, he was afraid of the creatures, of the dark, but those were feelings. Catching a bullet in the face was a reality, and far riskier than his imagination. Whatever the monsters were, they didn’t have guns.
Croft does, though. And a bow. God, how he wished he could just walk away from this. For a half-second he considered crawling out of the tunnel and into that small patch of underground rainforest. He could find some palms and hide, and just wait for everything to be over. He’d at least be able to see a sliver of sky…
And then you’ll walk away from this life forever, because no one will trust you and you won’t trust yourself. You’ll know that you were beaten, broken by your own fear. No more perfect shots.
Reluctantly, Sergei turned south again. Harper needed to know about the situation. He would go back to his post and keep trying to raise the commander, and wait, as ordered. If Croft made it to him, he would shoot to disable, not kill; if her friends had taken over they could use her to get out, but not if she was dead.
Sergei started walking. He told himself to hurry, but his body wouldn’t listen. Every step deeper was a reason to slow down.
* * *
Lara fished the LED out of her boot and scooped up the Remington on the run. She heard Mitchell come after her but the passage Lara was in widened and split almost immediately, widening into a chamber with multiple unmarked openings and a few marked connector passages. Lara ran for one on the west and slid inside, tapping off her lamp. Unfortunately she had to step around a curve and didn’t have the view she wanted of the chamber, but if Mitchell managed to find her, she would regret it.
Lara waited—and heard Mitchell run through, straight across and into one of the other tunnels.
Lara stuck her head out, saw the woman’s shaded light fading down one of the passages marked with down arrows.
Why that tunnel? She didn’t even look for prints.
Because she thinks she knows where I’m going. She thinks that I know where I’m going.
Follow or take a different route? The woman was deadly. Lara didn’t like the idea of trying to sneak up on her, but it might be a wise choice to take the offensive. And if she was right about Mitchell’s thinking, the other woman would lead her to the exit.
And, at any moment she can turn off her light, turn around and wait. A special skill for her, apparently. Lara had listened for a full minute before stepping into that passage, and hadn’t heard her until she’d stepped in with her knife. Their subsequent waiting game in the dark had been cut short by Mitchell’s radio, but before that, she might as well have been a ghost. If she set up another trap, there was no guarantee that Lara would sidestep it.
So what, then? Give up on the climb? Go back, go up? Or look for a different route?
There was a second passage marked with a down arrow, next to the opening Mitchell had gone through. If Mitchell was heading for the exit, that meant the route began below them somewhere. She could drop down, try to run parallel to Mitchell while she was still moving.
Go now, then. Her soft footsteps were still dwindling away.
Lara moved quickly into the new passage, a tight, lifeless channel of dark rock that sloped rather dramatically after a few meters. The air coming up didn’t smell good; it was wet and foul, but breathable.
She strapped on her gear and started down the slope, quickly having to drop into a near sitting position, edging forward on her hands and feet—
—and she heard footsteps behind her, out in the chamber. Careful, light—but heavier than Mitchell’s, by a fair amount. She listened as the steps passed through, hesitated, and then fell away. Was the stranger following Mitchell? She couldn’t be sure.
Two of them. That might complicate things.
And? It’s already complicated.
She had to turn to hop down a half-meter drop, noticing that the passage was starting to narrow. Looking ahead, she could see where it opened up again, over a level patch— but there was about a two-meter stretch that was going to be tight.
She scooted to where the rocks narrowed, sliding her feet in, twisting so that she could lower herself down. It was a test, fitting herself to the rocks, turning her hips and shoulders. There was a spot midway where she had to pull up so she could find solid footing, and that was when she heard the chirps in the tunnel beneath her—and felt a cold, wet something knocking against her calf, touching where her pants had been torn.
Lara kicked her leg and there were more chirps, faster. She couldn’t see past her own body, couldn’t see how many there were, but there were at least
three.
She kicked her legs aggressively, pushing herself down.
One of the things shrieked and she used the sound to slam her boot into the tunnel wall, making vibrations. There was a patter of movement, and another shriek. She was almost through when something clamped onto the back of her thigh and bit down.
Lara ejected herself violently and crashed a meter to the rocky floor. The salamander hung on, whipping its body when she hit the ground, trying to tear away a mouthful, and a half-dozen around her darted in, half of them screaming, jaws open.
She rolled, pushing down hard on the biter, smashing it into the rocks, feeling its soft body give, its bite releasing. She snatched the knife from her belt as she came up and switched on her lamp, slashing at the closest, hissing as loudly as she dared.
The blade skidded across its teeth, unhinging the animal’s jaw in a mist of blood. She cut again, finding its throat. Before it fell she crouched forward and stabbed a second through its chest, still hissing.
There was a final half-hearted feint from one of them but then it dodged away, and the others did the same, falling back, but they didn’t scatter, or turn and run. They backed away slowly toward a shallow pool that took up the entire southern end of the chamber, crying in short, aggressive bursts.
Delicate shards of bone littered the shore. Roaches and white beetles skittered over small heaps of rotting fur. She saw movement in the pool, tiny flickers of white.
There were only two openings to the room, both on the north wall, neither marked. Lara backed toward them, placing her feet firmly, trying not to slip on the thin greasy layer of spoor or the insects feeding thereupon. She could feel blood welling out of the bite, trickling down the back of her leg. The salamanders stayed by the water, keeping between the intruder and their young. They had gone back to chirping.
Lara stopped and took a bandana out of her pack, tying it tightly around the stinging wound before examining her choices, keeping an eye on the salamanders. The tunnel on the right was impassable; two meters in, it narrowed to a crack about the width of her skull. The one on the left was thin but tall. At least she wouldn’t have to duck.
You’re in unmarked territory. You should climb back up now, go back. There are two people ahead of you already, that you know of, looking to block this exit. Even if you get past them, you’ll be climbing at the end of this. Vulnerable.
They’ll be looking to block every exit. And you’re vulnerable as long as they’re down here hunting you.
She wasn’t going to be able to sneak out of the cenote without having to kill anyone else, and was resigned to the fact, but operating in the dark zone of a cave made frontal assaults extremely difficult. Light was a necessity and sound carried. If she had more time, things would be different…
She was struck by the absurdity of the thought. If she had more time, so many things would be different. Every aspect of her life was defined by time—regretting the loss of it, racing against it.
You’re still headed out and you’re almost there. She didn’t let herself think about Jonah or Miguel, not yet, or that they were still long hours from the silver-crowned mountain they needed to find.
Lara turned off her headlamp and slid into the crack.
* * *
Mitchell had reached the branch that led to the climb out and was starting to believe that Croft had gone another way or circled back… But then the cave animals sent up a cry, south of her, their strange voices huffing with alarm. A new sound.
Mitchell considered. The target might be the cause of the uproar. It certainly wasn’t Harper. She could hear him behind her, descending the passage that led to the branch where she stood. He wasn’t as loud as Sergei could be, but she was aware of his presence, a heavy step here and there. Was he limping? Croft wouldn’t be able to miss him, either. Was the commander a liability to Mitchell, or a useful distraction? She hadn’t decided yet.
The newts or whatever they were continued to huff, sharp, angry cries. Wait or go see?
Go see.
Mitchell tapped on her lamp and looked at the south wall. There was a tunnel set high, a crawlspace that looked promising. She climbed into it and started up on her hands and knees. The rocks were cold and rough, the tunnel twisting but not long. It opened into a rock hole with another, smaller passage low to the ground, still south.
Mitchell crawled through. A low rock tapped her injured ear and bright sensation pulsed for a minute, whining and far away. She got her nine-mil up to wave through a nest of long-legged white spiders and dozens of them clambered over her face, tiny, panicked feet tickling her sweaty skin.
She crawled out into a room that had multiple unmarked passages, and quickly turned off her light, listening. The creatures had stopped screeching, but she could hear them chirping, ahead of her and to the right…
Light.
Mitchell felt a grin surface. Two o’clock, a narrow crack in the wall of the small room had lit up for only a second, a smudge of light there and gone—and she heard the soft scrape of fabric against the stone, bare meters away.
Too narrow for her to come out straight on. And she won’t hear me over the sound of her own movement.
Mitchell crept to the passage, holstering the CZ, taking out her karambit, palming the small, vicious blade. She had a winning idea, one that formed fully in her mind in the time it took her to crouch in the dark next to the crack.
Cut twice.
Croft kept her knife and her semi on a leather belt, one that she could slice through in an instant, if she cut in the right place. A hook and pull near the buckle, and Croft would lose everything—except her bow, and Mitchell could pop the string with a single flick on her way up. Croft would be disarmed, forced to run—or engage.
Mitchell listened to the careful passage, listened to Croft stop and wait for a moment before moving ahead. She watched in delighted anticipation as the tip of the target’s boot appeared at the opening of the crack, her blood singing. Now!
She swept in and up, curved blade finding the thinner leather near the front, parting the thick hide with a single strong pull. The other woman gasped as the blade pierced her skin lightly.
Mitchell carried the movement smoothly upwards, hooking with the blade. The string on the bow broke with a twang and Mitchell dodged back a step. Yes, she’s—
Croft brought the bow down and forward, stabbing Mitchell in the neck, knocking her backwards. The thin fiberglass tore through her skin and then she was choking, blood running down her throat.
The target charged out of the narrow crevice, swinging the bow wide. Mitchell ducked and then darted in, ready to slash on the follow-through, but Croft was still moving, incredibly fast.
She spun and brought the bow around again, smashing it into Mitchell’s shoulder, sending her to the ground. Mitchell rolled and came up coughing, air and blood spraying. She dropped the knife and went for the CZ—
—but Croft had reversed her swing and the bow smashed across her jaw, knocking her back. Croft jabbed with the bow again, powerfully driving it into the corner of Mitchell’s mouth. More blood, more shining pain, two teeth torn free and floating.
Mitchell grabbed the CZ and brought it up but her opponent had moved, was already back at the crack somehow, flowing like water. She dove inside as Mitchell fired, bright strobing flashes that told her the target was already out of sight.
Already back at her belt.
Mitchell’s head was spinning, she couldn’t breathe without choking. She fired at the crack and edged rapidly west to an unmarked hole in the wall.
Two rounds came back at her from the crevice, the roaring crash of a .45. The first hit the rocks an inch behind her, spraying her with splinters of stone. The second winged her hip, poked a searing hole across the top. Blood started to pour.
Mitchell staggered into the tunnel, choking, pointing the CZ at the opening as she backed away. She had to stop the bleeding. And she’d lost her karambit.
Perhaps you should stop inviti
ng her to play, since you seem to keep losing.
Mitchell turned and hurried forward, stifling her cough, letting the broken teeth fall out in a rope of blood. Croft was ahead on this one, just as she’d had the advantage in the last interaction—or did, until Harper had stumbled in. At their next meeting, Mitchell would end the game. No more knives. She, too, had underestimated Croft. She wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
* * *
Harper heard the shots just as he reached the opening to the climb—a hole in the rocks over his head big enough to drive a truck through, leading up and up into the dark.
He heard Mitchell’s CZ and the heavier thunder of Croft’s gun, the shots echoing from behind him, back in the maze. Somewhere over his head a group of bats took flight, up and away.
Shit. He’d expected to find one or both of the women at the climb, and they were far behind him. Mitchell must have chased Croft off her route.
His radio crackled. “Commander… in… you copy?”
Sergei, at the top of the climb. His voice was low and anxious. He didn’t sound like he expected an answer.
Harper shined his flashlight up the long tunnel, considered how far back the women were. “This is Harper. I’m right under you, in the maze.”
“Commander?” The Russian’s voice gained a new urgency. The signal got sharper. “I heard shots.”
“Mitchell and Croft,” Harper said, shifting his weight. His ankle hurt, and his knee kept stiffening up. “They’re behind me somewhere. Coming this way, I think, unless it’s already over.”
“No, I heard firing above ground a few minutes ago, at the drop,” Sergei said. “And I can’t raise Reddy.”
“We’re too far in for contact,” Harper said.
“Yes, but I walked back into the tunnel,” Sergei said. “Far enough, he should have heard me.”
No. Can’t happen. Maiava was a big dumb flunky and the pilot wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
“I think you should take Croft alive,” Sergei continued. “If we have to negotiate—”
“That’s not the mission here,” Harper said, irritated by the suggestion. “Have you forgotten our objective? She’s on the run. The only thing we have to negotiate is the fastest way out, once she’s dead.”
