by CJ Lyons
Until now. Rossi had filled it quite nicely, thank you. The way heat roiled off her, as if she were feverish. Or he was. That strong jaw, stubborn—as if he hadn’t already figured that out for himself.
What the hell was he thinking, letting a woman distract him? During a goddamn murder—make that double murder—investigation.
Dig a hole and bury him now. Maybe the brass was right. He was losing it. Make that, lost it, past tense.
Sleet battered his head and neck, tiny snips of ice, making him wish he’d never left Rossi.
Forget Rossi. Time to go look at another body. At least it wasn’t the kid’s.
Petrosky waited for him at the bottom of the steps. They wove between the haphazard collection of vehicles. In the distance, he could see sparks from the firefighters cutting through the steel door down the alley.
“What’ve we got?”
“Female occupant of the apartment, dead from multiple gunshot wounds, obvious forced entry, no signs of robbery.”
The fire crew chief spotted him and waved him over to a makeshift command center at the back hatch of their Tahoe.
“Has the deputy chief gotten here yet?” Ryder asked Petrosky as they detoured over to the FD lieutenant.
“No. You’re still ranking PD.”
Christ. Goddamn brass wouldn’t let him call in mutual aid or do this thing right but also couldn’t be bothered enough to leave their turkey dinners and come out in the rain. You could bet, soon as the press showed up, they’d be here, squawking to get their five minutes in the limelight.
Ryder couldn’t care less about the credit. He just wanted to find the girl—alive—and work his two dead bodies. Hard to do that when he was also coordinating a search of seven flights of apartments, negotiating a truce with the gang that occupied them, and gaining entrance to the tunnels below. His head ached. He circled it with his hands, palms pressing against both sides of his skull, only to unleash a new wave of pain when he snagged one of Rossi’s staples.
“Son of a bitch.”
The fire department lieutenant looked up and nodded, thought he was describing the situation. “You got that right.”
“You got a plan for the tunnel search?” Ryder asked, peering over the firefighter’s shoulder to a ragged stack of blueprints spread out in the cargo bay of the SUV.
“These maps are the best we have,” the LT said. “Not even sure you’d call them maps, really. More like wishful thinking.”
“Why are so many areas blank?” Ryder asked. Bad enough he had two homicides to cover, witnesses to question, but finding the kid took precedence. Couldn’t do that without some decent intel.
The LT rolled his eyes. “Security. The tunnels were built as a big fall-out shelter. Emergency evacuation center, they called it. Only part of it is under the Tower. It spreads out over five blocks in every direction. It’s a freakin’ city down there. You remember Three Mile Island? This,” he rapped his knuckles on the map, “is where they evacuated the governor and the whole damn state government to. I know two people been down there in the last few years, and only one of them is still alive.”
“Someone got killed down there?”
“Nah. He died of a coronary, fighting a two-alarmer over on Congress.”
“Who’s the one alive?”
“You’re looking at him. We got sent down for a fire inspection after we pissed off the chief. Made it maybe twenty yards in before calling it quits. Place is a shithole, a fucking maze. Phones and radios won’t work.”
The SWAT commander jogged up to join them. He glanced at the blueprints, shaking his head, rain flicking off his helmet, splattering the map. “Hope you’re not planning on any frontal assaults. Talk about your goddamn fatal funnel. No room to maneuver, no sight lines. We need better intel.”
No shit, Ryder thought, but he kept his voice clear of emotion. “We’ve a missing ten-year-old girl, and she was last seen going into those tunnels. They connect to the Tower, so we need to work both locations. My men have the Tower covered, but we’ll need backup on the perimeter, especially if the Royales get antsy. Plus, we’ve a homicide scene in the Tower, so an extra presence there wouldn’t hurt.”
“I’ll spread my guys out, team up with yours until we have a plan of action ready to go.” He spoke briefly to his second-in-command.
“Have them start a door-to-door on the third floor where the body is, work their way down, then back up again. But no one goes on the seventh floor until I have a chance to talk with Tyree Willard. Last thing we need is to start a war with the Royales.”
“We knocking or kicking?” the SWAT guy asked. Wanting the rules of engagement—and making it Ryder’s responsibility if things went wrong.
“Kicking, but go easy on the furniture. We’ve exigent circumstances to look for the kid—nothing else. Of course, anything you see in plain sight…”
“Got it. Let’s go!” he shouted to his men, waving them into action.
Petrosky stirred at Ryder’s side. “You want me to go with them?”
“No. Stay with me, monitor the radio while I try to sort out this mess.” Ryder turned back to the fire lieutenant. “This kid might be injured. We need to gain access to the tunnels and start searching. There has to be someone who knows them.”
The fire LT scratched his jaw. “You remember the alligator guy? Burned down that warehouse down by the wharf?”
“The one with the rabbits?”
“Yeah. Should have seen that place—cages on cages of burnt-up rabbits. He was feeding them to the alligator he was keeping,” he explained when Petrosky raised an eyebrow. “One night the alligator tried to sneak a snack, knocked down some cages onto a space heater and whoompf, charbroiled rabbit all around. But the gator lived.”
“What’s he have to do with my girl?” Ryder interrupted.
“Point is, Gator Guy lived down in the tunnels for years before Kingston’s men found him and forced him out. He could tell us all about them.”
“He’s in Rockview.” The state penitentiary was two hours away. “We can’t wait that long.”
The LT shook his head. “Nah. He only got eight months, and with overcrowding, they kept him here. He’s in county lockup.”
Good excuse to bypass the brass and get some mutual aid from the sheriff’s department. Ryder got on his cell, explaining the situation to the ranking deputy on duty. As he hung up, the sparks from the tunnel door died down, and a triumphant cry went up from the firefighters gathered there. “We’re in!”
A crowd of uniforms surged toward the end of the alley. Ryder’s phone rang. He answered it. “Ryder here.”
“It’s me again.” Vance sounded stressed. “Listen, don’t go into the tunnels. Tyree and his gang have them booby-trapped. It’s not safe.”
“Shit. Okay, thanks.” He hung up and turned and yelled, “Hold up, guys!” Then he grabbed Petrosky’s arm. “You. Go get Tyree Willard and haul his fat ass down here. Take backup with you. If he gives you any trouble, you give it right back. All I need is for him to be able to talk to me, you get it?”
Petrosky’s eyes went wide at Ryder’s menacing tone. He didn’t care. He was so sick of Tyree and the Royales running this block like they were freakin’ kings, beyond the law. Not tonight, goddamn it. Not with two bodies cooling and a little girl’s life on the line.
“What are you waiting for?” he snapped when Petrosky didn’t move fast enough. “Go. Now!”
<<<>>>
Flynn was half-tempted to deal with Leo herself. A final solution. He was no good, worth less than mud scraped off his father’s shoes.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She owed Daniel everything. After she’d died and been reborn, she’d woken up in the ICU in a bed beside his. She’d gotten good news: She’d live. He’d received a death sentence: terminal cancer.
They’d bonded, the girl with no name and no past she was willing to claim, and the sixty-seven-year-old tycoon who’d needed someone he could trust with his secret. He’d
taken her off the streets, given her a home. More than just the job and money and opportunity, it was the trust—no, not trust, faith. Daniel asked her to do things verging on the impossible, and she did them, simply because he believed she could.
Biggest adrenaline rush ever.
Before Leo returned home in disgrace earlier this year, Daniel’s missions had entailed corporate espionage and spying, helping him to bring down competitors, ferreting out secrets he could use to solidify his power. It had been exciting, challenging—especially for a girl who hadn’t even finished high school before Daniel provided her with an all-access pass to anything she wanted to learn.
Daniel had taught her that knowledge was power. Nights alone in the empty mansion—before Leo spoiled it all—she would sit curled up on the floor, laptop surrounded by notepads and textbooks, and he would supervise her studies: modern psychological warfare, cybersecurity, leadership tactics of Genghis Khan, economic game theory. No topic was off-limits—as long as it kept Daniel amused and served to sharpen Flynn into a more effective weapon for him to wield.
For Daniel, it was a way to keep the pain from his cancer treatments at bay. For Flynn it was her ticket to a new life.
Most people hated the tunnels, feared the anonymous creatures—human and inhuman—that wandered the blackness. Not Flynn. She enjoyed being able to blend in, becoming invisible as she stalked her prey: Leo.
He used expensive night vision goggles to travel from the Kingston brownstone to his lab hidden deep within the maze. None of the tunnels—the largest as wide as a single-lane street, the narrowest with space for only one person at a time to travel through—had working lights.
Flynn avoided the pedestrian paths, instead climbing up past the multicolored pipes at ceiling height to the maintenance catwalk that ran between the pipes and the concrete roof. Below, the maze of rooms was enclosed by walls and thick metal doors, but up here in the cramped space of the catwalks, she could move past walls and doors and access most of the underground compound.
Unfortunately, Leo had turned her search for him into a game, moving his lair frequently while setting traps and false trails for Flynn. Everything was a game to Leo. Including what he did to his victims. But now things were spiraling out of control.
Best way out of this for everyone was if she snatched his current victim and paid the girl off with a one-way ticket out of town, no muss, no fuss. She’d done it before when she’d first discovered his “laboratory,” before Leo had moved his base of operations out of the brownstone and into the tunnels. He’d acted so superior after that, thinking she couldn’t interrupt him or stop him down here where he operated under Tyree’s protection.
Worse than superior. Smug.
He’d promised Flynn that someday, when her guard was down, he’d take her. Show her firsthand what games he and his guests enjoyed. In the meantime, he satisfied himself by leaving blood-stained clothing on her pillow; jewelry bent and twisted, melted by intense heat, the stink of burnt flesh clinging to it; once, a lock of hair tied in a ribbon, a piece of scalp still attached.
She didn’t bother Daniel with Leo’s lame attempts at psychological warfare. Mainly because she didn’t let Leo bother her. Refused to let him get past her guard.
But this was the last time, she swore to herself. She was done playing games.
CHAPTER TWELVE
This wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Following a stranger into a subterranean labyrinth. But if Devon Price could lead me to Esme, what choice did I have? Wait for Ryder and his men to finish searching the Tower, negotiate a truce with Tyree Willard, have him and his gang show them the hidden traps in the tunnels, all while investigating two crime scenes?
I stepped forward, the tunnel’s darkness seeping around me like walking into an inky pool, stones in my pockets. The dog followed at my knee. I was glad for someone I could trust in here—two against one, better odds. I patted the dog as we walked. He tilted his nose up and licked my palm. Even that slimy companionship was comforting. I’d had worse things on my hands tonight than doggy spit.
The man in front of me did indeed seem to know where he was going; at least, he didn’t hesitate as we passed out of range of the last remnants of light escaping from the church. Then he made a sharp right-hand turn into complete darkness.
I waved my flashlight. It was a bright LED model, yet seemed as ineffective as a child’s toy when it came to piercing the blackness. The roof was high above us. At least twenty feet, but I couldn’t see to the top through the maze of pipes suspended at ceiling height and the metal catwalk above them. Big pipes, little pipes, all color-coded and letting out the occasional bang, hiss, or whoosh. Unsettling. Especially since I had the feeling the noises weren’t all coming from inside the pipes. What could be living down here?
The air didn’t smell dank or musty like a cellar. Rather, it had an acid bite to it, a chemical tinge. The walls were cinderblock, painted white and lined with metal shelves that extended from the floor up twelve feet overhead. The floors were gray concrete with color-coded lines—like they used to have in hospitals to direct patients and staff. The place must have been set up in pods or wards, because we’d pass a group of same-colored metal doors, then nothing, bare walls for ten, twenty yards. There should have been dust, cobwebs—but there weren’t.
Somehow, that scared me more than anything.
Devon made another abrupt turn. “Nothing down here runs in a straight line,” he muttered.
“Do we have to worry about flooding?” I asked, mentally marking my path back to the church sanctuary.
“No. They’re not that kind of tunnels. Not like storm drains or sewer pipes. Ever been to Disney? Hear about the tunnels that connect all the attractions? There’s a whole city underground there. Heck, they have special cars they drive around in. This place was designed the same way.”
“If this place is like underground Disney, why doesn’t it have lights?”
He chuckled. “If you’re afraid of the dark, it’s only gonna get worse.”
“Just saying, finding Esme would be easier with the lights on. She’s hiding from the men who shot Patrice, so she’s not going to come out just because she sees our flashlights or hears our voices.”
He was silent for a moment. “How do you know so much? Did you see what happened to Patrice?”
Yes. Images of Patrice’s final moments raced through my mind, her voice repeating her last message, insistent, demanding. Find the girl. Save the girl. “No. I’m just putting myself in Esme’s shoes.” It sounded lame even to me. “If you’re not a cop, who are you? Why are you carrying a gun? What do you care about Esme? Are you a relative?”
His back ignored my questions.
“Hey. I’m serious. Who the hell are you? One of Tyree’s men?” I tugged on his jacket. It was designer silk, much too nice for a gang member.
He shrugged his shoulders, freeing the fabric from my fingers. “No. I don’t work for Tyree.” His pace didn’t slow, but his words did, as if weighing each of them. “Esme is very dear to me. Her mother is…was…a good friend.”
“So she’ll recognize you, come out of hiding if she sees you?”
His steps stuttered. “She’s never seen me. Has no idea who I am.”
“Great. First we have to find her in this maze, then we have to convince her to come with us?”
We turned another corner, and the dog pulled me up short, snarling as he bared his teeth. I felt the same way. The darkness before and behind us was oppressive enough, but now there was the unmistakable stench of burnt flesh. It was faint, as if something had happened here years ago—something bad.
Devon halted as well, one hand back, warning me. “Stay still.”
“What is it?”
“One of Tyree’s places. He used to keep a meth lab here.” His voice was hushed, tight as if he didn’t want to be overheard. Was there someone here to overhear?
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not,”
he snapped. “Hold still while I look around.”
One of the first things I teach new interns when they start work in the ER is “Look twice, think twice, act once.” This wasn’t the first time I wished I’d taken my own advice. But taking action while others are scratching their heads is the only way I know. It’s gotten me into trouble, a lot of trouble. It’s also saved me or my patients more times than I can count.
Still. Swallowing darkness, trapped in a maze with a stranger and potential lethal IEDs, made me yearn for the relatively quiet chaos of the ER.
Of course, if I was scared, how terrified would Esme be?
“Do you see anything?” I asked Devon, swinging my light to focus on the door he’d stopped at. Originally painted a bright yellow, it was scorched and charred around the edges as if flames had tried to escape. The dog stopped at my side but didn’t sit. Instead, he tensed, ready for action, his nose in the air, ears flattened.
“Bad memories.” Devon’s tone was blacker than the darkness surrounding us, so low I barely caught his words.
He strode forward, and I had no choice but to follow. Staring at the back of his head was driving me nuts. I hated not being able to see ahead of us, felt claustrophobic, with my back exposed.
Reminding me of the second thing I teach newcomers to the ER: Trust no one, assume nothing.
Yet, here I was, trusting this stranger and assuming I was sane enough to make the choices needed to save a girl’s life.
I checked my cell. No signal. I’d been hoping to call Ryder, get some good news. Like they’d already found Esme and we could abandon this subterranean expedition. Or at the very least that they knew how to turn the lights on. Or maybe just to reassure myself that the outside world still existed.
It’d been only twelve minutes since we left the church. Felt like twelve hours. I definitely was not cut out for life underground. If the apocalypse happens, I’ll ride it out topside instead of burrowing in the dark alongside the rats.
