by Mallory Kane
“Why, I’m going to kill you. What else?” Tom looked genuinely surprised that he hadn’t figured that out.
“Why don’t you just lock us in here and get away with your precious box? And let my son go.”
Tom eyed him narrowly, then nudged the box with his foot.
“Why don’t you open the box for me?” His gaze snapped to Natasha. “But first. Natasha, my dear, please unhook your fanny pack—with your left hand. I want to see your right hand in the air.”
Natasha glanced at Dylan then complied. She had a little trouble manipulating the catch, but finally popped it. She tried to catch the pack, but couldn’t with one hand. It thudded to the floor.
Tom grinned, his eyes darting from her to Dylan then back. “So, you were armed. Put both hands up. Now kick the pack over here.”
She did what he asked. Dylan could tell by her face that she was racking her brain to think of a way to overpower Tom.
Tom reached out with one foot and dragged the fanny pack closer. “Now, Doc. How ’bout we open the box?”
He kicked the metal box carefully so that it slid to a stop a foot from Dylan’s shoe. “And don’t try anything else or I’ll be forced to put a hole in sweet Natasha’s forehead. And it would be such a shame to mar that lovely face.”
Dylan’s jaw ached with tension and anger. He had to figure out how to stop Tom. He and Natasha should be able to overpower the skinny, puffy-faced little man. But Tom seemed awfully comfortable with the big semiautomatic he wielded. And it was a very good, very accurate gun. A Desert Eagle. It underscored the theory that Tom was fraternizing with a terrorist group.
With that firepower in his hand, there was no way he or Natasha would survive a point-blank shot.
He began to crouch down to reach the box.
“Hold it. Put your right hand in your pocket, and bend at the waist. Open the box with one hand. Natasha, back away. Two steps.”
“The latch makes it impossible to open one-handed.”
“Give it up, Doc. I’m not buying any of your flimsy efforts to slow me down. And by the way, time’s a-wastin’ for your kid.”
Ben. He did what Tom said. He’d told him the truth about the box’s latch, but by holding the box steady with his foot, he managed to get it open.
“Straighten up and kick it back to me. And if you try anything this time, I will shoot her. I don’t need her anymore and I’m not very fond of her these days.”
Tom glanced down at the open box, then grinned at him. “What do you know. It is the implant, isn’t it? And DVDs. Instructions for programming I hope.”
“Now you’ve got what you wanted. Take it and tell me where my son is.”
Natasha moved back to his side. “Come on, Tom. You’re home free. You disappeared before. You can do it again.”
“Natasha,” Dylan said. “Do something for me. Tell him you won’t ID him. I just want to get my son back.” He glared at Tom. “I don’t give a damn what happens to you, but I’m willing to keep quiet if you’ll just give me my son unharmed. He means more to me than any technology.”
“I do,” Natasha said to Tom. “I do promise. I swear. Please let Ben go.”
Tom smirked. “You don’t get it do you? I’m not through with you. You defied me. So high and mighty, not wanting to hack into the government’s files. Are you still as idealistic and naive as you were? Come on. The government is corrupt. Why not steal their secrets. You even skated on the prison time. I can’t believe you got a job with the FBI for hacking them!” He shook his head. “Inside the FBI. We could have been rich.”
Dylan listened in fascination. He finally understood exactly what had happened to Natasha eight years ago. She’d tried to tell him, but he’d been so angry, so worried about Ben that he hadn’t paid attention to her.
She’d been framed by Tom, betrayed by him.
“Tom, please. Whatever you’re going to do—do it. Take me with you. If you’ll let Ben go, I’ll go with you. I’ll work for you.”
“No!” Crap. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out. He clamped his mouth shut.
Tom’s dark eyes sparkled. “You’ll work for me? You’re falling on your sword for his kid? And, you…” He turned to Dylan. “I guess you can’t stand to think of her working for me, can you?”
He laughed loud and long. “I see what’s going on now. You two are in love, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Sorry, Natasha. I appreciate the offer, but you’ll understand why I can’t bring myself to trust you.”
Dylan studied him, waiting for an opportunity to jump him. He wasn’t concerned about himself, although he’d rather not die here. His main concern was Natasha. He knew that even if Tom killed him, she’d do everything humanly possible to save Ben.
“But before I do anything—permanent—one of you open this door for me. I haven’t touched it, figuring you probably have some kind of lockout on it.” Tom looked at Natasha. “Come open the door.”
“She doesn’t have access,” Dylan snapped, hoping to hell that Natasha would keep quiet.
“Doc, would you give me a break? You’re becoming so freaking annoying that I feel like shooting you just to shut you up.”
Dylan shrugged. “Let her try then. As you said, there’s a lockout for incorrect entries.”
“Then you get over here. Natasha, turn your face to the wall and put your hands up. High up, palms against the wall.”
Dylan saw Natasha comply. The awkward pose raised her top to her midriff, exposing a lot of skin between her ribs and her hips in the low-rise jeans she wore.
He moved slowly toward Tom, his hands spread. As he approached, Tom kept the gun aimed at his head. He didn’t have any idea if his impromptu plan was smart or stupid, but it was all he could come up with.
“Go ahead. Enter your code.”
“I have to get my pass code generator out of my pocket. It’s on that chain that’s attached to my belt.”
Tom pressed the barrel of the gun into the nape of his neck. “Go ahead. If it’s not your pass code device, then it’s bye-bye, Doc.”
He slipped the pass code generator out of his pocket and held it so Tom could see it. The pressure of the gun barrel against his skin relaxed a little.
“Okay, Doc. Your kid’s waiting. Let’s go.”
For an instant, Dylan’s anguished heart wanted to believe Tom. That all he was going to do was take the interface. That as soon as he was safely away from the shack, he’d call and tell his accomplice to let Ben go.
But looking into his eyes, Dylan knew with a sick dread that Tom wasn’t like that. He was the type who didn’t want a mess. Natasha, Ben and he were a mess that Tom would want to clean up.
So he used his middle finger instead of his thumb in the fingerprint reader, then entered the numbers that appeared on the tiny screen of the pass code generator.
The lock flashed red and beeped.
“I thought you didn’t touch the lock,” Dylan burst out before Tom had a chance to react. “Damn, what did you do?”
“What the hell?” Tom buried a centimeter of the gun barrel into Dylan’s neck. A shooting pain streaked up his skull. “I didn’t do anything. I swear, Doc. If you don’t get that door open, I’ll shoot you both right now.”
Dylan nodded and met Tom’s gaze. “You have to tell me if you did anything to the lock.” He knew he looked scared to death. He just hoped Tom would think it was because of the lock rather than fear that Tom would shoot them if the door didn’t open.
Tom blinked and scowled. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t press any of the buttons? You didn’t try your fingerprint?”
“I might have accidentally touched the keypad. What the hell are you saying?”
“Quiet!” Dylan said. “If I don’t enter the correct code within twenty seconds—” He tried it again, still using the wrong finger on the print reader.
The lights flashed red and the beeping started again.
“Ah, hell.” He allowed the pani
c that swirled inside him to seep into his voice. “I only have one more chance,” he lied.
Tom pushed him against the wall and put the gun barrel under his chin. “Get the damn door open or you’re both dead.”
Dylan lifted his chin. “If you kill us you’ll never get out.”
“I swear I’ll kill you.” He cocked the gun.
At the same time the snick of metal against metal echoed around the tunnel. A solid whine began and immediately rose in pitch and blared.
Dylan took a deep breath, prepared to grab Tom’s gun.
Behind him, Natasha screamed.
Tom froze, his finger on the trigger.
“No! Dylan!” she cried, reaching out, touching the concrete walls. “I can’t stand it. Get me out of here.” She beat her fists against the walls. “Get me out! Get me out! Oh, God! I can’t breathe!” She collapsed to the ground.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Dylan shoved Tom with all his might.
A gunshot rang out.
NATASHA JUMPED UP and dived toward the two men who were in a deadlock against the wall. Her ears rang with the sound of the gunshot. Her heart pounded in terror. Was Dylan shot?
As she reached them, Tom shoved Dylan away. Blood smeared them both, but the dark red stuff bloomed and spread on Dylan’s shirt.
Oh no! Dylan looked stunned.
She wanted to go to him, check him, stop the bleeding. But her training had taught her to neutralize the threat first.
She lowered her head and rammed Tom in the belly, then flung her arms upward, hoping to disarm him. But his skinny pallid appearance hid a wiry strength. She knocked the breath out of him with her head-butt, but he didn’t fall. He kicked her, bruising her shin.
Then pain exploded in her head.
She blinked and suddenly found herself flat on the floor.
“Tasha!”
Dylan’s voice echoed in her head. He sounded as if he was in a tunnel. She squeezed her eyes shut and quelled the urge to laugh. He was in a tunnel.
Damn it. She shook her head. She was dazed from Tom’s blow. She got her arms and legs under her and tried to push herself up.
“Look at me, Natasha,” Tom said.
She looked at his shoes. He was standing right in front of her and she knew he was pointing his gun at her head.
He nudged her with his foot. “Look at me! I want to see your face when you die.”
She rose to her hands and knees and took a deep breath, preparing to slam into his knees. She wanted to check on Dylan, but she didn’t dare take the time. She needed all her concentration, all her strength, to try to save her life and his.
She raised her head slowly and tensed, preparing to ram her shoulder into his knees. Her heart hammered in her chest.
But a shadow loomed over her and Tom went down.
Dylan. He’d slammed Tom against the wall and was pummeling him with his fist.
Tom was doing his best to keep the gun out of Dylan’s reach. He waved his gun arm high in the air. Dylan was right on top of him so he couldn’t get the gun in between them. A shot rang out but it went wild.
Wincing at the deafening report, Natasha grabbed Tom’s wrist in both hands, but both men fell toward her, and she lost her grip.
As she scrambled out of the way to try again to disarm him, she realized his arms were no longer flailing. He’d gotten them between him and Dylan. They were struggling for control of the gun.
She watched in horror, not breathing. Please. Get the gun, she screamed silently at Dylan.
Dylan’s face was pale and covered in sweat. He was losing strength fast.
She cast about, looking for something to use as a weapon. Something to help Dylan. Her eyes lit on the metal box. She picked it up and rushed the two men, aiming to hit Tom on the head.
The gun went off.
All three of them froze. Dylan and Tom’s faces reflected surprise and fear.
Natasha’s heart thudded once against her chest then seemed to stop.
“Dylan,” she sobbed, reaching for him.
He turned his eyes toward her, then closed them.
“No, no, no,” she whispered. “Don’t die. Oh God, please. Don’t let him die.”
He took a step backward and she saw the gun in his hands.
Tom looked at her, his eyes barely focused. “Natasha,” he muttered. “We could have ruled the world.” Blood was turning his black shirt darker, wetter.
He looked down and touched the wet material then looked at his blood-smeared hand.
“Still the best,” he whispered, then crumpled where he stood. His head thudded loudly against the concrete floor.
Dylan dropped the gun. He looked stunned.
“Your shoulder,” Natasha said, rushing to his side.
“Yeah, I’m kind of shot.”
“Kind of?” She hiccoughed a little laugh.
He lifted his good hand and swiped his thumb across her cheeks. “Don’t cry, Tasha.”
“I’m not crying.” She shook her head. “FBI agents don’t cry.”
“Yeah right.” He stepped away from her, toward Tom. He leaned down and briefly laid his fingers against Tom’s throat. “He’s dead.” He looked up at her. “I killed him.”
“Self-defense.”
He blinked and his blue eyes sharpened to electric blue. He turned over Tom’s body and felt in his pockets. “His cell phone.” He stood, swaying a bit.
Natasha looked at the screen as he thumbed through the recent numbers. Most calls were to one number. So he pressed the call button. But the screen brought up a No Service message.
“Damn it!” He stepped over closer to the door and tried again. “No service in here.”
He looked down the tunnel back toward the lab. “We’ve got to get out of here. Ben’s running out of time.”
“There should be an escape route.”
Dylan looked stricken. “This is the escape route.” He rubbed his hand down his face.
“What about an override for the doors?”
“Sure. In an hour, but by then whoever has Ben will have—” His voice shook.
“You’re telling me Mintz didn’t build an escape hatch on this tunnel?”
Dylan nodded. He wiped his eyes.
“That’s not possible. Mintz wouldn’t take the chance of getting locked in here.” It didn’t make sense, given Mintz’s insistence on triple redundancy. “Come on, let’s find it.”
“Might as well,” he said. “I don’t have a better idea.” He looked around, then rubbed his temple. “Where’s the box?” His voice was strained and his face was pale.
“Over here.” She picked it up. “I need to wrap your shoulder. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
He looked down at the bloody T-shirt. “No time. Let’s go. I don’t think we have but about thirty minutes.”
She nodded. Ben’s life was at stake.
They walked back up the tunnel, examining every inch of wall. “This is taking too long,” she said. “If I were Alfred, where would I put an escape?”
“In the middle?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Now, where’s the middle?”
“Right before the first curve. We’re pretty close.” Dylan was sounding more and more strained and his voice was getting weaker. He took out the cell phone and tried it again. “Still no signal,” he mumbled.
Natasha slipped under his good shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Lean on me,” she said.
He tried not to but soon he was allowing her to help him walk. “Here’s the curve. The midpoint of the tunnel is about fifty feet from here. God, I hope we’re right.”
As they walked around the curve, Natasha counted her steps.
Just then, she heard a faint noise.
“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Wait!” She stopped. Did she feel air? Fresh air? “I think I feel a breeze.”
Just then dirt and sand sifted onto the floor.
“Dylan!” A gruff, unmistakable voice
echoed in the tunnel.
Dylan looked around, hope striking a spark in his eyes. “Alfred?”
“Dylan! Natasha! Answer me!”
The words echoed all around them.
“Alfred!” Dylan’s voice broke. “Thank God.”
Natasha studied the wall on the north side of the corridor. There, about four feet from the floor, was a section of concrete that didn’t look like the rest, on close examination. She tapped on it. It sounded hollow.
“Dylan!”
It was Mintz. “Stand back,” he shouted.
A noise like a fist hitting a wall reverberated through the tunnel. Then a second blow followed the first, and Mintz’s fist slammed through drywall that had been painted to look like concrete. Light and air gushed in through the hole, blowing drywall dust into their faces.
A shadow blocked the light as Mintz poked his head in through the hole.
“Dylan’s injured.” Natasha took the metal box from Dylan’s hand and handed it to Mintz.
“Gambrini’s right behind me.”
“Dylan—” she squeezed his waist “—give me Tom’s cell phone.”
He leaned against the wall and fished it from his pocket. “Find Ben,” he muttered.
“We will. Here.” She handed the phone to Mintz and called out to Gambrini.
“The last called number is to whoever’s holding Ben. They have instructions to kill Ben in probably fifteen or twenty minutes if Tom doesn’t call them.”
Mintz handed the phone behind him. “Where is Tom?”
“He won’t be calling anybody.” Dylan’s words were slurred. “Find him, Alfred. Find Ben.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Gambrini said.
Natasha heard him scrambling backward, out of the tunnel.
Dylan slumped. “Alfred, Dylan’s passing out. He’s lost too much blood.”
“Gambrini,” Mintz called over his shoulder. “Send Robby and Hector in here and phone an ambulance now. We’ve got to get Dylan out of there.”
“No,” Dylan mumbled as he slid down the wall. “No ambu…lance. Ben. Save…Ben.”
Chapter Thirteen
Natasha rode in the ambulance with Dylan. She wanted to go with Mintz to join Storm and Gambrini in rescuing Ben, but Mintz had refused to let her.
