by A. G. Riddle
No response.
He tried the knob. Locked.
“Des? Answer me.”
He counted five seconds.
He dreaded what came next, but he stepped back, his mind going blank, into an almost autopilot-like mode. His kick connected in the center of the hollow door, next to the knob. It exploded inward, hit the wall, bounced, and returned. The split-second peek confirmed that the room was empty.
He touched his collarbone. “Request backup. We’ve lost him.”
He pulled his sidearm and entered the bathroom. It looked the same. He reached out with his left hand, still holding his gun, pressing the wall opposite the vanity and toilet.
A voice behind him. “Sir?”
“Check the ceiling!” he called, not turning.
The wall gave when he reached the corner. Just a slight movement. He stepped back and kicked hard. His foot went through the drywall and got caught. Balancing on one leg, he jerked his foot out and drew the Maglite from his belt. He switched it on and peered through the hole, taking in the small room and manhole.
He activated his comm. “I’ve got him.”
Conner stood, thinking, his mind like a computer analyzing the situation. What does this mean?
Strong possibility: Desmond knew about this tunnel.
Evidence supporting: he had been here before—he knew what was on the corkboards when he woke up.
Certainty: either the tunnel was here before Desmond visited the first time, and he was told about it… or it was built after, likely at his request.
Most likely possibility: Desmond planned this—as a trap door at the end of his memories.
Implication: the tunnel was made in the last few months.
What options do I have?
Chase him down, or go where he’s going.
Chasing was always a bad option.
Which left only one question: what’s his destination? The marshy waters of Bair Island Marine Park lay to the east, Bay Shore Freeway to the west. The tunnel would be unable to pass either, at least in the short amount of time they had to construct it.
Conclusion: the tunnel exited somewhere in the airport. Most likely at another hangar.
The operatives were at the door to the bathroom, guns held at the ready.
“Take the SUV, block the airport entrance!” They turned, and he called after them, “Shoot the tires on anything trying to exit. Be careful! Don’t hit him!”
He clicked his light off. And stood silently. In the dim light of the bathroom, he stared through the opening in the drywall, hoping Des would re-emerge, hoping that maybe the tunnel went nowhere—that it was just a ruse to get them to move out, much like the ruse he himself had used to escape the X1 soldiers at Desmond’s home.
Behind him, he heard the SUV crank and roar away.
He waited. No movement. No light.
He ran out of the office and found Dr. Park standing there looking wide-eyed, almost frantic. Park must have begun to realize that Conner didn’t need him anymore, now that Desmond had recovered all of his memories. And the scientist knew too much—including details about the location of the island that was the Citium’s final stronghold.
Conner felt his hand drift down to the gun in his holster.
Park took a step back, furtively glancing around.
Conner knew what he should do. What Yuri would do. What needed to be done.
“Stay here, Doctor. I’m warning you.”
He told himself that he would finish him when he got back, but as he ran out of the hangar, he knew it wasn’t true. He pushed his legs as hard as they would go, running into the night across the grass, onto the tarmac. He unslung his rifle from his back and stood, waiting for a hangar door to open.
Chapter 57
The tunnel seemed endless. Desmond’s legs protested, but he pushed harder, his way lit only by the tiny beads of light above. Finally, he saw a ladder ahead. He slowed as he reached it, knowing time was precious, but that danger might be waiting.
He gripped the ladder and looked up. The dirt ended ten feet above at a concrete layer that was frayed at the edges, like the cheese topping on a slice of pizza that had been bitten into. He heard the faint murmur of voices, men arguing, then laughing.
He climbed the rungs quietly.
The exit from the hidden passage wasn’t as polished as the entrance. Mounds of black dirt were piled on each side, hills left by the auger. The ceiling of a hangar loomed above. Desmond peeked over the edge and saw two men, overweight, one with a shaved head, the other with short hair, both sitting on cheap metal chairs at a folding table, studying playing cards fanned out in their hands.
One leaned back and spotted Desmond in his peripheral vision. He reeled back, the chair tripping him, sending him tumbling to the ground. The other man laughed, then realized something was wrong. He scanned, saw Desmond, and stood, drawing a sidearm and training it on Desmond. “Freeze. FBI.”
Footfalls on the concrete, a third figure running, approaching.
Desmond held his hands up, didn’t climb further. The third figure rounded the dirt mound. This man Desmond knew. David Ward. Avery’s boss—the same boss who had agreed to build the tunnel.
“We need to go,” Desmond said.
Ward held his hand out, palm down, and the agent lowered his gun. The other agent was on his feet again, red-faced and embarrassed.
“How?” Ward asked.
“By plane. Right now.”
Ward nodded to the two men, who raced to the hangar doors and pulled them open. A jet sat just beyond the hole in the concrete.
Ward helped Desmond climb over the dirt pile. “You screwed me over, Hughes.”
Desmond looked at him. “I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Look, I tried. I failed—”
“I’m only here because Avery Price thinks you’re the key to stopping them.”
So she had saved him once again. In the other hangar a month ago, then on the Kentaro Maru, and now here.
Desmond walked toward the plane. “Can we talk about how pissed you are in the air?”
Ward muttered something Desmond couldn’t make out, but fell in behind him.
There were two black Ford Crown Victoria sedans sitting just inside the hangar door. A thought occurred to Desmond. Conner was likely already aware he had escaped—and that he hadn’t gone far. To Ward, he said, “Can you fly the plane?”
The man glanced at it. Not a good sign. “Sure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why?”
“We need covering fire. Two men in a car making sure the runway is clear.”
As if on cue, tires squealed from another hangar, and headlights beamed out into the night, picking up speed, like a panther released from a cage.
Ward called to the two agents and told them to load up. “Get your rifles, too.”
He led Desmond up the plane’s staircase, and they jogged to the cockpit. Ward squinted at the flight instruments. Another bad sign.
“You can—” Desmond began.
“Pull the stairs up, Hughes. And shut up.”
Desmond heard the engines roar to life as he closed the door.
He returned to the cockpit. “What can I do?”
“Just keep a watch for hostiles.”
Desmond moved toward the co-pilot seat.
“No,” Ward said. “Get back in the cabin.”
Desmond studied him.
“Less chance of getting hit.”
“Didn’t know you cared.”
Ward smiled. “I don’t.” He watched as the gauges on the panel ticked up. “Avery would kill me if anything happened to you.”
“Right.”
One of the Crown Victorias led them onto the tarmac, its lights off, the passenger window down, the short-haired man poised with an automatic rifle. Desmond saw Conner’s Suburban parked at the entrance to the airport, blocking the gates. The two security operatives stood beside it, guns at the ready.
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br /> The plane was almost to the runway when the first shots ricocheted off the Crown Victoria. But the shots didn’t come from the Suburban—the angle was wrong.
Desmond dashed to the opposite side of the plane, waited, and saw a muzzle flare from the grass on the Bair Island side.
“Shooter in the grass!” he shouted. “Bay side. Eleven o’clock.”
More shots. The Crown Victoria sparked like a pack of firecrackers. A clang sounded off the plane’s fuselage, then another.
“He’s trying to shoot the tires!” Desmond called.
The airport had only one runway. He and Ward had to take off now or surrender.
A round of automatic gunfire sounded, this time from behind the plane, the bullets striking the tail fin.
“Hey!” Desmond turned toward the cockpit, but a massive explosion drowned him out. Through the window he saw the Crown Victoria engulfed in flames, the front left corner lifting into the air. The car almost flipped, but settled back onto the ground.
A grenade—and an expert shot at that.
Ward swerved the plane. Desmond flew across the cabin, rolled off a seat, and hit the floor at the base of a couch. He heard more shots hitting the plane’s metal skin.
The plane accelerated. From the floor, Desmond saw Ward pushing the throttle forward. He crawled up onto the nearest seat and peered out the windows. There were three shooters running down the tarmac, their rifles flaring. It reminded him of the orange lights flashing on switches in a data center in the Rook facility, with his brother at his side—the man now directing the shooting.
The wheels lifted off the ground. The aircraft wobbled. The engines roared, and the shooting stopped.
Desmond climbed over the seats to the back of the cabin for a better view. One of the shooters ran back to the burning Crown Victoria, where the agent in the passenger seat had climbed out. He pulled the man up and searched him. And then the darkness consumed the scene, and all Desmond could see were the beady runway lights. The Bayshore Freeway was dark and empty—something he had never seen as long as he had lived in the valley.
He walked to the cockpit, where he found Ward talking into a smartphone, giving orders and updates.
“Hey,” Desmond whispered.
Ward held the phone to his shoulder.
“One of the agents got out of the car. They’ve got him—”
“I’ve got X1 units inbound.”
Desmond didn’t give that plan much success. Conner had proved himself quite adept at urban warfare.
“Does he know where we’re going?”
Ward rolled his eyes. “Hughes, I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“What?”
“Hold on.”
Ward returned to his call, which apparently was with Rubicon ops.
Desmond settled into the co-pilot seat and studied the instrument panel. Fuel level was good. Not dropping. There were a dozen other readouts, only a few of which he understood.
When Ward ended the call, Desmond said, “So where—”
The man took a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
Desmond opened it and read the single line of handwritten text.
“What is this?”
“Apparently, it’s a note from your past self to whatever the hell you are now. You gave it to me in that hangar back there a month ago when you asked us to dig your tunnel. Said it was my eyes only. Not even Avery.”
Desmond read the sentence again.
It lies in the bend, where blood turned to water and darkness turned to light.
“What does it mean?” Ward asked.
“I assume you’ve been trying to figure it out?”
“We have. Best at the CIA and FBI counterintelligence have been working on it.”
“Best guesses?”
“The bend, mention of water and blood, they were thinking the Red River, maybe a location in Oklahoma. Couple of guys thought it was the Blood River in South Africa, the reference to the Zulu battle in 1838 and then 40, the Dutch alliance with the indigenous tribes the reference to the light and dark.”
“Good theories,” Desmond said. And they were. But they weren’t correct.
“You don’t know the answer?”
“I do. Fly east. To Oklahoma.”
Thirty minutes later, Ward engaged the autopilot, stood, and walked out of the cockpit. Hughes was sprawled out on the couch that ran along the left wall of the cabin, sawing logs. Whatever his brother had done to him, it had left him shaken, weak, and sleepy.
Ward eyed the sleeping figure. Initially, Hughes had been a fulcrum with which Avery would split open the Citium and stop a conspiracy. But somewhere along the way, he had become an altogether different entity to her. Precious. Untouchable. An item she loved, nearly worshiped.
And it was Ward who had brought them together. He had recruited Avery right out of college, her mother dead, her father in assisted living, then round-the-clock care. She was pure of heart when she showed up at his office in Research Triangle Park, a truly good person. But the world had changed that. Her job had changed her, and he had given her that job.
And then this monster, Hughes, had changed her.
Now Ward didn’t know where her allegiance lay—to the enigma snoring on the couch, or to him and the United States government. Sex changes everything, Ward thought. It was a variable counterintelligence agencies and computer algorithms would never be able to factor in. Almost like a viral infection that rewires a brain, changes emotions, even alters the lens through which a person sees the world.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Hughes was their only way in. These people—the Citium—were a black box buried in a black box, and Ward had no choice but to follow this rabbit hole wherever it led. There was no other play. He needed Avery, and they needed Hughes.
And things were going to get messy.
He took out the sat phone and called his best agent, perhaps one of the best who ever lived.
Chapter 58
As a boy in Stalingrad, Yuri had learned to hide. To slow his breathing and remain quiet and listen. For years, he had lived like that, moving from one place to another as the siege dragged on and the city crumbled block by block, leaving dead bodies in its wake and driving the living back, like rats out of a sewer. That’s what his childhood had felt like, and that’s how he felt in that moment, hiding in the Cave of Altamira. But he did it then and he did it now, because he had to—in order to survive. He wasn’t above doing whatever he had to. So he listened, and when he heard the vehicles crank, he listened more closely, waiting for the sound to fade into the distance.
He ran out, into the blinding afternoon sun, shielding his eyes as he moved to the visitor center. His men were alive—tied up and gagged. The phones and radios lay in a shredded heap. That was smart—and unfortunate for him.
“Quien habla español?” he yelled.
Several men writhed and lifted up, looked toward him as they screamed into the gags. He untied them. He needed locals, someone who knew the area.
“Aeropuerto?” one of the men asked.
“No,” Yuri said quickly. “We need a car first. Then a boat. They’ll soon be watching the airports.” He motioned to the door. “Go. Split up and find a car. Return here, and I’ll make sure you escape.”
Thirty minutes later, Yuri and three of the mercenaries were riding in a Dacia Sandero, bouncing along the curving, hilly roads, heading toward the coast. At the small town of Suances, they found a yacht club. It was half empty, and the boats that remained had apparently been abandoned. There was an Azimut 50 among them, with almost five hundred gallons of fuel in the tank, and jugs of water in the lower deck. They gathered food from the other boats and a working sat phone.
As the vessel powered out of the harbor and into the Bay of Biscay, Yuri dialed the Citium Situation Room. He was quickly transferred to Melissa Whitmeyer. From the tone of her voice, he knew something was wrong—and it wasn’t what had happened at Altamira.
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“Sir, Mr. McClain has been trying to get in touch with you.”
Yuri sat down on the plush white leather sofa and stared at the teak floor. “Put him through.”
Conner’s voice was heavy with emotion. “I lost him.”
“It’s okay—”
“No. It’s not.”
“The tracker?” Yuri asked.
“Still in place, but…”
“Don’t lose hope, Conner. This isn’t over.” Yuri paused. “Where is he now?”
“Heading east. Toward Oklahoma.”
“He’s going home. Maybe he hid Rendition there.”
“Maybe. Where were you?”
“We have had a setback here.”
Conner was silent a long moment. “He’ll tell them where the island is.”
“We don’t know that. Hughes was drugged when he left the island. Even if he marked the stars, he couldn’t find us.”
“I lost the doctor, too—Park. He’ll definitely tell them.”
That was a problem. But Conner needed something else now, and Yuri knew exactly how to give it to him. “Listen to me. None of that will matter soon. If we complete the Looking Glass, nothing else will matter. Focus, Conner. Now is our moment. We must persist. We always knew this would be difficult. We are being tested.”
Conner’s tone changed, the dread and worry fading away. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get to an airport. And be ready when I call you.”
When Conner disconnected, Yuri dialed Whitmeyer again.
“I need a plane. And a new team.”
“Santander is the closest—”
“No. That’s where Shaw went. She’ll have put them on alert.”
“Stand by.”
He heard her making calls in the background and typing on her keyboard. “I can get you a plane in Bilbao, but personnel is going to be a problem. We allocated everyone to Altamira. You could go back and—”
“I can’t go back. Prep the plane. And keep an eye on Hughes’s tracker. Is the biometrics working?”
“Yes. Heartbeat was through the roof during his escape. I think he’s sleeping now.”
