by Cherry Adair
"Who's there?" No response. "If you're leading me on a wild goose chase for some warped reason, Oliver, I swear." She almost walked into the ten-foot high chain link fence blocking her path and let out a choked scream.
"Down this way." A man, his heavily accented voice disembodied, was a darker silhouette against the darkness. The smoker. A cigarette glowed orange, followed by a plume of the pungent smoke, which rose in a paler cloud around his head. She followed the voice. A faint metal on metal noise was followed by a squeak. As it turned out, getting inside the compound was shockingly simple. Why couldn't Oliver get out the same way?
Stepping through the gate as the guard held it open, she waited while the guy relocked it using a high tech keypad. In the distance, glass shattered to the whoops and cheers of the men. One guy started singing, badly, to the drunken hilarity of the others.
The soldier towered over her, and River took a few steps back. Holy crap, he was a hulk. "Where's my brother?" She squinted, holding up a hand to shade her eyes as he flicked on a small, powerful flashlight and trained it on her face. "Is Dr. Sullivan injured? Incapacitated?" River had no idea what to expect. Oliver had sounded like Oliver. Distracted. Impatient, intolerant of anyone who didn't “get it” right away.
The guard didn't respond.
Blinking to get her vision back, she took in the man as he shifted the beam to check the jungle beyond the fence. "You alone?"
"Yes."
The man had black peach fuzz on his head and jaw, massive shoulders, and a barrel chest barely contained in military fatigues. He was also heavily armed. A machine gun slung across his chest like a cross body purse, a handgun resting in a hip holster, and a large knife strapped to his ankle. Overall, he was definitely someone she'd rather have on her side than against.
Turning off the flashlight, he indicated with a jerk of his square jaw that she was to precede him to the building, which was a paler square about five hundred feet away. Their footsteps crunched across the gravel. Any sounds they made were drowned out as several men joined the singer in a raucous chorus.
"How far are we going?" Darkness pressed around her like a damp wool blanket and her heart was doing calisthenics. Don't let your nerves get the better of you. Keep sharp. Use your brain. Be ready for anything.
The sudden staccato pops of guns discharging and shouts stiffened her shoulders. But then they went back to singing off tune. The sound of more gunfire was distant, but she picked up her pace as the singing suddenly stopped. "Is it much further?"
The sound of multiple engines springing to life a few minutes later was jarring. Her head shot up and her steps faltered. "What's happening?" she asked, as muffled male voices speaking what she presumed to be Russian shouted back and forth. Car doors slammed. Tires scattered gravel. Shit. Why the sudden activity in the middle of the night? Had they discovered Ash and his men? Her blood ran cold and her already frantic heartbeat stuttered.
The longer they walked, the more River's concern for both Ash and her brother grew. The shouting, laughing and singing stopped, only to be replaced by tires on gravel, and door slamming. What the hell was going on? And how would this affect Oliver and Ash?
Was Oliver injured? Did he need medical attention? She sure as hell hoped he was mobile. If she managed to get him out of wherever he was, they’d have to run back almost four miles to reach the car. If he couldn’t walk or run, she’d have to retrace her steps. Alone. Fast. Twice. She shuddered.
As for Ash… No, she couldn't go there. She just couldn't. He knew the risks of what he was doing, knew his own physical limitations.
What he didn't know was how she felt about him. Even she was shocked at how fast she'd fallen. Would that knowledge have made any difference to the decisions he'd made tonight? She'd probably never know, and that made her chest ache.
The humongous soldier rapped sharply on the outside wall, which was covered with siding painted a matte black. Looking twice, River realized there was an almost invisible door in the wall. Above the frame, a small red light betrayed the presence of an active camera.
The door gave a series of clicks and whirs, and cracked open, emitting a muted shaft of yellow light across the dirt and gravel. She braced herself and stepped inside. The dimly lit corridor had been painted white about fifty years ago. Chipped, peeling, filthy, nicotine-colored now, the corridor smelled strongly of corrosive chemicals, and even more strongly of stale cigarette smoke. She associated these odors with her brother.
Her throat closed with fear. Anticipation, horrific, terrifying anticipation was a hard knot in her chest.
There wasn’t a picture, or a window, or a sign, or anything to indicate what this place was used for. From the smells, she presumed it was near Oliver's lab. Cold. Industrial. Pretty damned unfriendly. Sweat dried on River's skin. The soldier stopped in front of an unassuming door and turned to look at her with black eyes and no expression. "Vkhodit'."
"Go in?"
"Vkhodit'."
River twisted the door handle, walked inside, then blinked. The vast room, lit only with the flickering light of a dozen computer monitors, was dim. It was so cold, she shivered.
She braced herself for the worst. Blood. Broken limbs. God, please. Had Oliver been tortured? Starved? Was he chained? Restrained? Trepidation filled her mind with a million fleeting, terrifying images gleaned from movies and TV shows, her only knowledge of what being held captive looked like.
"Oliver?"
Her brother stepped out from behind a long table. Tall, thin, rumpled. But not restrained in any way. River took in the room in a sweeping glance to see if anyone was holding him at gunpoint. They were the only two people in the lab.
His black-rimmed glasses were, as always, smudged and slightly crooked. His white blonde hair stuck straight up, as if he'd been running his fingers through it as he worked out a complicated problem. He was no thinner or paler than the last time she'd seen him five years ago. He was unbruised, unbloodied, and damn it, the muscle in his cheek twitched, indicating he was annoyed. That same tic had appeared throughout his life whenever reality intruded on the complex thought processes and puzzles in his head.
Annoyed? She narrowed her eyes. He was freaking annoyed? Scanning the room, she saw exactly where they were. His damned lab.
His home away from home. She’d been in enough of his workspaces in her life to recognize the tools he used. Computers, monitors, chemicals, and liquids. Mysterious lab equipment. It was his usual scrupulously tidy workspace, and organized in a way that made sense only to him. Inside was his favorite style of black leather ergonomic chair, exactly twenty-five yellow number 2 pencils in the same crooked blue ceramic pot she'd so proudly made for him in fifth grade, the bulky electric pencil sharpener, always on the right and a neat stack of five lined yellow note pads beside the plain blue mouse pad. "What the hell, Oliver?"
"I told you not to come. I thought I'd have more time."
River's temper shot up, flaring through her body like red-hot, molten lava. She walked right up to him and punched him hard in the chest. "Franco's dead."
"I'm well aware."
"You are?" Looking past him, she saw an image of the front the hacienda in one of the large monitors behind him. Her attention returned to his stoic features. "You were watching us the whole time?"
"Irrelevant. Please don't get confrontational. You know I don't like it. And stop talking endlessly. Here." He shoved a laptop against her chest, and she automatically wrapped her arms around it. "Hold this while I finish backing up the rest of my files."
"We don't have time to do anything but leave, Oliver."
"Seven minutes," he told her absently, all his attention on the scrolling text on the largest monitor. "The pass is blocked. How does T-FLAC plan to get you out of the valley? Is that helicopter coming back for you?" He typed a series of commands, as the text kept scrolling.
"Franco's helicopter?"
Without turning around, he snapped, "For God's sake, River. Focus. Not Fran
co's helicopter. The one they sent to pick people up in the square earlier. It left. Is it coming back for you?"
"I suppose so." Dear God. Had her brother been watching them, all the time? The thought was chilling. "You know counterterrorist operatives are here?"
Fortunately, the question was rhetorical. He didn't answer as he moved to another keyboard and leaned over to type commands with two fingers.
"Where are your captors?" she demanded. "Where are the restraints? The guards with guns? There are no kidnappers, are there, Oliver? That text message was just a load of bullshit, wasn't it? No one is or was holding you captive. You designed this goddamned lab. You can walk right out of that door any freaking time you want to."
She narrowed her eyes, so mad she shook. "It wasn't me you wanted up here. It was someone else. Someone you thought I'd tell all about my poor brother held captive, and ask for help. Someone who would come here to 'rescue' you. Who were you expecting to come and 'save' you, Oliver?"
Arms loose at his sides, Oliver didn't react to her anger. "Will you lower your voice, and adjust your tone?”
"Probably not." She crossed her arms, giving him a cold look. He was, of course, impervious. Human emotions weren't in his wheelhouse. Due to his Asperger's, and his tendency to ignore others, he didn’t understand them. Showing a loss of temper, her frustration, or even how terrified she was, was a waste of time, no matter how strong those emotions were. "I have every damned right to be pissed at you." River stuffed her fingers into her front pockets to prevent herself from slapping him. "Do you freaking well know what I thought when I discovered all that money in my bank account and didn't hear from you for more than three weeks?" Her voice choked, and she had to clear the lump in her throat before she could continue. "I thought you were contemplating suicide. I came to Los Santos to stop you.
He didn't look up as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Why would I take my own life?"
"I thought you were depressed after your girlfriend died."
"Catarina didn't die." He didn't take his attention off the screen for even a second. "She was murdered. And that was three years ago." He kept typing, moving from one keyboard to another. "I'm over it."
"Over?" Her voice died as she looked beyond the overflowing ashtrays, the empty packs of Nicorette gum scattered everywhere, dirty dishes, and his favorite childhood faded blue blanket on the matted brown velvet swayback sofa.
A bank of monitors flickered and glowed in the semi- darkness. Each one showed six views. With a small frown, she turned her back to him to get a closer look. They showed the interior and exterior of Franco's home, the front door of the rectory, and Marcus's kitchen where her note was still propped on the sugar bowl. It also showed the town square from several angles where people were gathered to get into a giant camouflage painted helicopter and her bedroom at the hacienda, with her cherry-print dress left where she'd stepped out of it on the floor in a frantic puddle to get to her brother.
Two other monitors showed Ash in an eerie green light. Alone, inside the mine as he ran cord along the wet floor. Or that's what she imagined his movement to be. She could only see a green image, without any detail.
River's blood turned to ice as she swung back to her brother. Pale and rumpled, he removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses on the hem of his short-sleeved, mis-buttoned, cotton shirt, put them back on, then combed back his hair with both hands. It was a lot of action for Oliver. He was nervous.
River indicated the computer monitors. "What's all this?"
He took her upper arm in surprisingly strong fingers, and started pulling her to the door. "I'll explain it later."
She stopped dead in her tracks, her shoes making a high-pitched squeak on the linoleum floor. "Explain right now."
"I’ve uploaded my life's work to a cloud site. I'm ready to leave now."
"Did you think by telling me you were being held 'hostage' that I wouldn't come?"
"I thought you'd be sensible, and tell one of the counterterrorist operatives to come."
"Not when I think your life is being threatened. And how do you know about the operatives in town? Oh, right. You've been keeping your eyes on things. Why do you have surveillance on Franco's house? Why are you watching Father Marcus? And why do you have a night vision camera in the mine?"
Sighing, he pushed up his black-rimmed glasses with a nicotine-stained finger. "Franco is a terrorist. He's the one who's been keeping me up here all this time. I accidently came up with the formula for a powerful explosive while looking for the most expedient, contained blast to use in the mining operation. Emeralds are soft. They fracture easily if the blast...never mind. While walking through the mine, I discovered veins of a substance more powerful than any manmade explosive. I formulated it so that he could use very small amounts to blast designated areas.
He glanced around as if looking for something, talking almost absently as he frowned. "When I discovered he was selling that product to terrorists around the world, I was appalled and tried to leave. He stopped me. They've been holding me prisoner here as I worked on a better delivery system. Those guards out there aren't here to keep people out. He hired them to keep me in."
He was prevaricating. "One guard."
"Heavily armed."
"Who let me in. You could've left at any time, couldn't you, Oliver?" River tried to suppress her temper. Losing her cool would completely shut him down. She couldn't afford for Oliver to shut down. Not here and not now. Still her temper flared hot. She ground her teeth, and breathed in deeply through her nose. Chemicals. Cigarettes. And weirdly, an underlying sweet smell of honey.
Had her brother sat right here this afternoon watching her having sex with Ash? "Why were you monitoring my room?"
"That was the bedroom I stayed in when I went to town. I wanted to see if Franco searched it."
"Did you watch me having sex?"
"Of course not. Who would you have sex with? Did you bring Devon with you?"
"Of course not. He's re-married and we don't have that kind of relationship. Damn it. Stop changing the subject."
"We've got to get out of here, River." He pointed to the monitor on the left. "That's one of the men sent here to destroy Franco and his business. He's in there to blow the mine. I don't know how long we have, but it's sure to be happening damned soon."
River's attention was glued to the screen, watching as Ash did his job. Even in the grainy image, she recognized him, seeing how he favored his left leg. There was no evidence that anyone else was with him. "Where are the others?" she whispered, observing Ash's pronounced limp.
"Damn it, River! Gone. Who cares? Once he ignites that charge he's laying, the whole mountain will be sheared off! And everyone in a hundred mile radius will go with it. Let's go. That helicopter they sent back for you will be collateral damage unless we're on it and out of here." His fingers tightened on her upper arms and he tugged at her to get her feet in motion. “Move."
Unable to tear her eyes from the screen, she ignored him as Ash stumbled. River's heart stopped. Limping a few more feet, he reached out as if to support his weight, but he didn't quite make it, and fell to one knee. River's heart swelled as he tried to lever himself to his feet. Instead, he dropped to the ground and lay still.
It was bad enough to imagine it, but it was devastating to actually watch him fall. "How do we get there?" Her mouth dry, skin clammy with nervous perspiration, she pointed.
"Get where? Are you nuts? Inside the mine? To where that guy is? With charges set to blow at any minute? No. We run like hell. There's a company car. We'll take that and hightail it to the village square. Look.” He pointed at the changed view to that of the almost empty square. The fountain was no longer spraying and the streets were empty, save for the helicopter, its blades spinning.
“Their helicopter is waiting for you. Let's go. I don't know how much time we have. Every second counts. Move it. Damn it, River—-"
"Tell me how to get to where Ash is. You can leave if you want to
."
"You know I don't drive." He searched her face, saw she was determined, and threw up his hands. "Are you fucking out of your mind?" Oliver's face flushed dark red, and his eyes behind his thick glasses looked wild as he started scooping what could only be emeralds, into a pouch. "No. I won't be party to your insanity." He didn't look up as he swept various-sized stones into the bag. "And I sure as hell won't stand by while you kill yourself." Pulling the drawstring, he tucked the bag into his back pocket. "Why do you give a flying fuck what happens to the guy?"
"I don't have time to argue with you, Oliver." River moved quickly to the door. "With or without your help, I'm going to go and help him." She paused to look back. "And when we're somewhere safe, you'd better have a damn good explanation." Angrily River swept her hand around the room. "For the money, the lack of communication for all those weeks, for all of this."
Nineteen
His pulse slowed, and his focus became pinpoint. The only sound Daklin heard was his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears. The dank, dark tunnel smelled of mildew, sweat, and the underlying sweet, honeyed smell of E-1x. He'd ordered his men out, and back to the valley, fifty minutes earlier. There was nothing left for them to do. He'd rejected their offers to stay in his stead. This part of the op was for a one-man band.
It was his responsibility. His penance.
All he had to do was get out, shut the blast proof door, then haul ass.
That was the promise he'd made Turley and Gibbs when they'd reluctantly left him to complete the job. Once initiating detonation, he’d have thirty minutes to get to safety. There was nowhere enough time to crawl his way out. And crawl was about all he could do right now. He wouldn't make it to the fucking door three hundred feet away.
Trapped, for the rest of his--thankfully short--life in the deep end of a mineshaft that was far too narrow for the motorized vehicle, which could've taken him to safety.
He'd tried a couple of times to get to his feet, making a fucking effort to get out. But his leg had given up the ghost and refused to hold him this last time he went down. So be it.
