by Tarah Benner
Thirty seconds ago, he hadn’t even known where he was being held. He certainly didn’t know his way around this place, and he knew he’d never make it out on his own.
Several minutes passed in strained silence. They hadn’t been ambushed again, but Soren took the lack of resistance as an ominous sign. The Homeland Security agents were probably watching them from some security feed, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack.
Conrad led them through another tunnel that Soren had never seen before. He was sure they were about to round a corner and find themselves face to face with a contingent of heavily armed guards, but instead they reached a much wider tunnel that had a windy two-lane road running through it.
As if Conrad had planned it, there was a small open shuttle cart parked up on the narrow curb. The key was in the ignition, so they all piled inside. Conrad hit the gas and bumped down onto the road, and Soren grabbed hold of the side rail to keep from sliding off his seat.
The vehicle moved much faster than he would have guessed. His eyes stung as the wind whipped over his face and they blazed through the dark, rocky tunnel. Every few feet, they would pass under a bright light suspended over the road, and then they would be thrust back into near darkness.
The tunnel smelled faintly of silt and exhaust fumes, and judging by the moan of the vehicle’s tiny overtaxed engine, they were driving uphill.
Suddenly, a distressed look came over Simjay, and he mumbled something to Bernie that Soren couldn’t hear.
“We need to get off the road,” he said to Conrad.
“There’s nowhere to get off,” Conrad yelled.
“But —”
A few seconds later, the reason for Simjay’s concern became apparent. As the tunnel snaked to the right, they were blinded by two sets of headlights headed straight for them. Unlike the souped-up golf cart they were riding in, these looked as though they belonged to two enormous tanks.
“Hold on!” Conrad yelled over the roar of the engines. He jerked the wheel hard to the right, and the vehicle rammed into the curb. The tires bounced them back toward the road, and Soren felt a jolt of whiplash.
“What the hell’re you —” Axel yelled.
But Conrad paid him no attention. Soren glanced at the pavement to his right and then back at the bright lights. He braced himself for impact, preparing to roll out of the vehicle, but then Conrad jerked the wheel again, and the vehicle bumped over the curb and onto the sidewalk.
As they whipped around the bend, Soren had to throw his body over Axel’s lap to keep from scalping himself on the encroaching stone wall. The sidewalk was too narrow. One of their wheels was millimeters from the wall, and the others were dangerously close to the edge of the road.
They blazed past the tanks with a whoosh! and Soren felt a blast of heat from the engine. Conrad steered them back onto the road, and they straightened up.
Simjay and Axel looked equally horrified, and Soren knew they were thinking the same thing he was: Conrad was insane.
A moment later, he steered them over to a small parking area, jumped out, and motioned for them to follow. Soren, Axel, and Simjay scrambled after Conrad toward a lone steel door cut into the opposite side of the tunnel. He swiped them through with a stolen key card, and they all crowded into a dank stairwell.
They huffed up the stairs at a breakneck pace, Axel sweating and panting as though he might pass out. They climbed up four, five, six flights of stairs, and still Conrad showed no signs of stopping.
“Hang on,” Axel spluttered, stopping on the landing and bending over his knees. His knuckles were white where he was gripping the railing, and his face had a sickly green tinge.
Conrad didn’t stop. “No time to rest,” he called. “We’re almost there.”
As it turned out, “almost there” meant five or six more flights of stairs. Soren had lost count. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, he had an agonizing stitch in his side, and his legs felt as though they were made of jelly.
Simjay and Axel were much worse for the wear. Simjay’s dark hair was matted to his forehead, they had both sweated through their shirts, and Axel’s face had turned an alarming shade of puce.
Finally, Conrad came to a halt in front of a heavy steel door. He pushed it open, and they all piled into a narrow hallway illuminated by sparse strips of emergency lighting.
Soren knew they must have gained some serious elevation. His ears needed to pop, and the rush of air on his face made it feel as though they were walking against a strong headwind.
They were still moving uphill, and when they reached the end of the hallway, Axel let out a half-hearted stream of curses. There, through yet another door, was a ladder.
Conrad started to climb, and Simjay let out a moan of despair. Soren was starting to get the feeling that Conrad was leading them on a wild goose chase, but they were too deep inside the mountain to abandon his plan now. Soren wasn’t sure he could find his way back.
Up, up, up they climbed through a narrow chute that looked like the inside of a volcano. Soren felt the occasional drip of cool water on his skin, and the damp air wafting down from the top of the shaft made him feel as if he were climbing up out of a cave.
Then he glanced up and saw what looked like a tiny window of light directly above their heads. It wasn’t very bright, but there was definitely something there. He fought a sudden burst of dizziness as he leaned back into the abyss. His clothes were completely soaked, and his eyes were stinging with sweat.
Then Conrad reached the top and climbed through the opening. Soren’s muscles shook as he lifted himself out of the dark shaft. He was kneeling on a smooth concrete floor, but he couldn’t immediately tell where they were.
They were standing in an enormous stone chamber with a ceiling that disappeared twenty or thirty feet above their heads. A pattern of red and white reflective strips ticked up as far as he could see, illuminated by the glow of a dozen orange emergency lights. The stone walls were plastered with all sorts of official-looking warning signs, but that wasn’t the strange part.
Directly in front of him stood a helicopter. It wasn’t a small chopper, either. It was a Bell Huey helicopter that looked as though it could fit at least ten or twelve people.
“Are you serious?” he said to Conrad.
“It’s the only way.”
Soren looked at Simjay. Who the hell was this guy? Did he think this was a joke? They weren’t stuck in some Jason Bourne movie. This was real life.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” spluttered Axel, heaving himself up out of the hole. “There’s an elevator?”
Soren looked around. He was right.
“This was the safest way. Trust me,” said Conrad, crossing to what looked like a metal garage door and punching a button on the wall.
“Trust you?” Axel spluttered. “You fuckin’ —”
But Axel broke off as the big metal door began to move. It rumbled up the stone wall, flooding the chamber with light. Soren squinted against the blinding sun but hungrily sucked in the gust of fresh air.
He couldn’t believe it. They were standing inside a hangar cut into the face of the mountain.
Simjay, Soren, and Axel watched in awe as Conrad crossed to the helicopter and climbed into the fuselage. He couldn’t be thinking what Soren thought he was thinking. It was insane.
“Is he —” Soren began.
Simjay opened his mouth, but a second later, the elevator doors flew open, and three guards burst into the hangar.
Simjay raised his gun and fired. Two of his shots pinged off the metal doors behind them, but the third caught one of the men squarely in the chest. He dropped to the ground, clutching his heart, but he wasn’t dead.
The man in the middle turned his gun on Soren. Soren ducked, but not before he felt an excruciating blast of heat sear past his left arm. He swore, and Axel shot the guy in the head.
Axel’s bullet had a much different effect than Simjay’s had. Rather than tensing in pain, the
man’s face went completely slack. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes and lay motionless as blood seeped from his wound.
“Get in!” Conrad yelled from the helicopter. He was already wearing the overlarge pilot’s headset and fiddling with the switches inside the cockpit.
Soren’s vision blurred with pain, but his brain couldn’t quite process what was happening. Shots were flying back and forth, and Soren heard voices coming up from behind him. He looked down into the shaft they’d climbed through and saw the top of a head bobbing up the ladder.
There was a magnificent whoosh above him, and Soren saw the blades of the chopper begin to move.
“Come on!” Simjay yelled, grabbing Soren under the arm and pulling him to his feet.
Axel was still shooting, but a second later, the doors opened, and five more men stormed into the hangar.
“Axel!” Soren yelled over the hum of the chopper. “We have to go!”
But Axel was checked out — consumed by his rage. All those days cooped up in a box had gone to his head, and he couldn’t hear a thing.
With an enormous amount of difficulty, Soren pulled himself into the chopper as Simjay tugged Axel away from the gunfight. The metal interior was sparsely furnished. Green cloth seats folded down from the wall, but Soren was relieved to see that he’d been right about the aircraft’s capacity.
Several bullets pinged off the side of the chopper, but a second later, they were airborne. Soren yelled, but his voice was lost in the deafening rush of the rotors. Simjay handed him a headset and put one on himself.
“You sure you know how to fly this thing?” Soren bellowed into the mic.
“Conrad was an air force pilot,” came Simjay’s voice in his ears.
That made him feel slightly better, but with the men on the ground firing up at them, he was worried that they might blow up the chopper before they could exit the hangar. More men were spilling out of the chute, hoisting themselves up one after the other with robotic precision.
The chopper hovered in the hangar for a moment, and Soren felt his breath catch in his chest. They were staring out into the open blue sky, Colorado Springs unfolding beneath them. Jagged orange rock formations were visible in the distance, mixing with the skyscrapers and houses dotting the foothills.
Then the helicopter tilted, and Soren grabbed on to a handle to keep from tumbling into Simjay’s lap. Conrad steered them out into the open air, and Soren lost his breath.
They were fleeing the government’s top-secret bunker. They’d thwarted the Department of Homeland Security, breaking countless laws in the process. They were on the run once again, but for the moment, they were free.
twenty-seven
Soren
Soren could still hear the sounds of gunfire behind him, but for a moment the whole world seemed to stand still. They were hovering in midair thousands of feet above the city. Then Conrad guided them away from the hangar, and they left Cheyenne Mountain behind.
“You’re hit,” said Simjay. Soren heard his voice as clearly as if Simjay was sitting on his shoulder, but he still seemed very far away.
Soren looked down. The sleeve of his sweatshirt was soaked with blood, and the material was torn just above his left biceps. His arm felt too hot, he felt too cold, and pain was radiating throughout the entire left side of his body.
“They just clipped me,” he mumbled absently, hoping that was true. His head felt foggy. He was exhausted. And he had no idea what to do next.
Simjay helped him shrug out of his sweatshirt and went to work patching the wound with a first-aid kit he’d found inside the aircraft.
Luckily, the bullet had only grazed him, but it had taken a chunk of his flesh and muscle with it. He had lost normal function of his arm, and he hoped it was only temporary.
Soren was too dazed and exhausted to ask where they were going, but a moment later he noticed that they were losing elevation. They seemed to be gliding down to a neighborhood filled with big expensive houses and large overgrown lawns.
Conrad landed in the middle of the street, producing an ugly scrape of skids on asphalt. An old van was parked fifty feet in front of them, and a moment later, the back door burst open.
Denali launched himself into the road and sprinted toward them like a cheetah. A second later, a familiar head of wild blond hair poked out of the door, and he saw Bernie hobbling toward them on her crutches. Portia was right behind her. They were staring at the chopper as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.
Bernie was yelling at the top of her lungs, but none of them could hear what she was saying over the sound of the chopper blades. Simjay was gesturing for them to climb aboard. Conrad was tugging violently at a piece of machinery under the control panel, and Soren wondered if he had finally gone off the deep end.
“I can’t remove it,” Conrad told Simjay. “It’s wired in. I might fry the system.”
“We’ve got to.”
Conrad hesitated.
Simjay raised his eyebrows. “Better to fry it now than when we’re airborne.”
Conrad seemed to deliberate for a moment and then bent over the control panel again and continued to fiddle with the apparatus.
Just then, the helicopter door flew open. Portia climbed inside, and Simjay bent down to help hoist Bernie in behind her. Denali was barking at the chopper as if it were an overlarge bird that he couldn’t quite reach, but as soon as Bernie climbed inside, he hopped in, too.
Bernie careened into Simjay and threw her arms around his neck. Simjay let out a delighted gurgle that Bernie couldn’t hear, and Soren threw him a look of tolerant disgust.
“You st — uh — per?”
“I can’t hear you!” Simjay yelled over the din. He rummaged around behind him for an extra headset and placed it carefully over Bernie’s curls.
“You stole a chopper?” she yelled, nearly shattering all their eardrums.
“Had to,” said Simjay, looking more than a little pleased with himself. “The guards were all over us. Once we rescued Soren and Axel, we had to get the hell out of there.”
Soren rolled his eyes and slouched back into his bloodied sweatshirt. He didn’t blame Simjay for milking his hero moment, but he seemed to be forgetting one important detail: They still didn’t have Lark.
“Where — Where’s Lark?” asked Bernie, looking around as if she’d read Soren’s mind. Her eyes were wide and terrified, and Soren got a kick of remorse when he realized what Bernie must have been thinking.
“She wasn’t there,” said Simjay, helping Bernie into a seat as Conrad lifted them off the ground.
“She made a deal with Homeland Security,” Soren explained. “She went back to San Judas.”
“What?” Bernie spluttered, forgetting once again that her voice was electronically magnified. She shook her head. “No. No! Lark wouldn’t do that.”
Portia was shaking her head and muttering darkly, but Soren couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Shut up!” snapped Bernie, staring at Portia as if she knew exactly what Portia had said. “Shut up! Lark wouldn’t —”
“She didn’t sell us out,” said Soren quickly. “They told her that we’d all go free if she went in and got them what they needed.” He ground his back molars together in frustration. “They sold her a bill of goods. They were never going to set us free.”
“We have to find her,” said Bernie. “We have to go to San Judas and —”
“And what?” snarled Axel. “Drop down and extract her Navy Seal–style?”
Bernie’s eyes widened in a “Why the hell not?” sort of look, and for the first time, Soren understood why she and Lark were friends. Bernie didn’t give a fuck. Bernie was as brave as they came, and she’d do anything for her best friend.
“If she’s somewhere in the colony, we could drop in, grab her, and be out of there before anyone even knew,” said Bernie.
“Are you crazy?” spat Axel.
“There’s no way they put her b
ack in gen pop,” said Simjay in a low voice.
“How do you know?” Soren snapped.
“I don’t, but —”
“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” growled Axel. “We can’t just fly to New Mexico to stage some half-assed rescue. They’re probably trackin’ us as we speak.”
“Not anymore,” said Conrad, yanking a small black box out from under the control panel. Wires were spewing from the back like entrails, and it looked important. “Without this, we won’t be transmitting our location data back to air traffic control. Now, they could still calculate our position via multilateration, but that only works reliably at five to ten thousand feet. If we stay out of that range —”
“We stay off their radar,” Simjay finished. He was staring at Conrad with a familiar hero-worship-y look in his eyes.
“We’re lucky we made it out of that hellhole alive,” snapped Axel, looking from Simjay to Soren as if they were certifiably insane. “We’ve probably got fighter jets on our asses right now. We need to dump this chopper and get the hell away from here.”
Simjay looked excited but conflicted. He turned to Conrad. “How fast could we get to northern New Mexico from here?”
Conrad paused, chewing over the question. “You’d have to be more precise than that.”
Simjay rummaged around in the plastic bin under his seat and produced an enormous book of topographical maps. He flipped to the table of contents and then rifled through the book until he found what he needed. He passed the book up to Conrad, who spent several minutes evaluating the distance.
“I had to disable our navigation system to ensure we weren’t transmitting a location, but if I had to guess . . . Around two hours?”
Bernie threw up her hands as though they were arguing over nothing and stared pointedly at Axel.
“Ya’ll are gon’ get us killed.”
“We’re the reason Lark went back there in the first place,” said Soren.
Axel couldn’t argue with that, but that had never stopped him before. He opened his mouth with a grumble of protest, but Soren cut him off. “We have to,” he said roughly. “She’s there because of us.”
