Unrestricted Access: New and Classic Short Fiction

by James Rollins

  Dear god, help us all . . .

  Joe Kowalski lay on his back in a puddle of oil. He gave the wrench a final tug to tighten the new filter on the old Jeep. He wiped the surface clean to make sure that the gasket had stopped leaking.

  That oughta do it.

  He rolled out from beneath the vehicle and shifted over to a cigar resting atop an overturned glass cup. Still on his back, he placed the stub between his lips and drew a couple hard pulls to get the end glowing brightly, then sighed out a long stream of smoke. Maybe it was stupid—and definitely against the rules—to be smoking in Sigma’s motor pool, but who was around to complain at this late hour?

  He had the place to himself—which he preferred.

  He climbed to his feet and inspected the ’79 Jeep CJ7 that he was restoring. He had bought the off-roader three months earlier from a retired Forest Service member who had driven it hard, then let it sit idle for almost a decade. Never a good thing for a beast that loved to tear through a rugged landscape. Kowalski had already done a mild rebuild on the Chevy 400 motor, while troubleshooting issues with the transmission, steering, and drivetrain, but he still wasn’t entirely happy with the wiring.

  The open-body exterior was a patchwork of Bondo and primer, with some of the original olive-green paint showing. The front seats and rear bench, all original, were ripped and worn. He’d eventually get around to sprucing it all up, but for now, he appreciated his progress.

  “You might be an ugly son of a bitch,” he mumbled around his cigar, “but you can at least haul ass now.”

  He stared across the handful of other vehicles in the motor pool, mostly a sleek and polished mix of Land Rovers, German sedans, and a pair of Ducati motorcycles. He ran his palm over the Jeep’s quarter panel, feeling the rough texture of Bondo and a small buckle from an old fender bender, all testaments to its hard use and toughness.

  He couldn’t wait to test this beast off-road, to let her truly loose.

  Imagining that, he grabbed the roll bar and climbed behind the wheel—an easy enough maneuver, as both doors were leaning against the neighboring wall, waiting to be reinstalled. He turned the key. The engine coughed twice, belching smoke from the exhaust, then settled into a throaty growl.

  He leaned back, allowing a satisfied grin to crack his face.

  “Kowalski!”

  The sharp voice made him jump. He twisted around to see the lanky form of Sigma’s resident computer geek come racing into the garage. A loose navy-blue windbreaker flapped around the kid’s thin shoulders, exposing a holster strapped across his chest.

  “We have to move!”

  Kowalski puffed out a lungful of cigar smoke. “Where?” he growled around the glowing nub.

  “Across the Mall. To the National Museum of Natural History.”

  A twinge of fear spiked down Kowalski’s spine—not for himself, but for another. It was a knee-jerk reaction. His girlfriend—or, rather, ex-girlfriend—had worked there for the past couple of years, overseeing exhibits on Greek mythology and ancient history. But Elizabeth had left three months ago for Egypt to join an archaeological dig. Their relationship had already taken a rocky turn before that and had been on its last legs. As much as opposites might initially attract, it wasn’t necessarily the recipe for a long-term relationship. And though this dig in Egypt had been a great opportunity for her, he knew a large part of her drive to go had been to put some distance between them—less for her sake than his own, he suspected. It was no secret between the two of them that his torch had burned brighter.

  And still did.

  It was one of the reasons he had purchased the Jeep and undertaken this restoration. He needed something to distract himself with.

  Jason pointed to one of the BMW sedans. “Let’s go! I’ll fill you in along the way!”

  Kowalski flicked the nub of his cigar into a nearby pail of water. “Get your ass over here!” he called out, gunning the engine for emphasis. “We’ll take my Jeep!”

  Jason skidded to a stop and looked skeptically at the vehicle, but he adjusted to the change with the pliability that only came with youth. He ran to the open passenger side and hopped into the seat. He looked for the shoulder strap, but like the doors, the seat belts were also missing.

  Kowalski yanked the truck into gear and bucked the vehicle forward. Jason had to grab the edge of the roll cage to keep his seat.

  Hmm . . . maybe the tranny needs some further tweaking, too.

  Kowalski hauled on the wheel and sent the truck rumbling toward a ramp that spiraled up to a private exit onto Independence Avenue.

  Jason spoke rapidly as they climbed, filling Kowalski in on the details of a cyberattack upon the Smithsonian servers—and of a potential asset hiding inside the museum across the Mall. “Director Crowe thinks the enemy has implemented a backup plan. After failing to obtain the information electronically, they’re going directly for the source.”

  For this woman . . .

  Once at the top of the ramp, Kowalski pointed toward the glove compartment. “Open that.”

  Jason obeyed, popping the compartment to reveal a large steel pistol resting inside. He passed the weapon over to Kowalski—using both hands. “What the hell is it?”

  Kowalski accepted the huge revolver with a grin. The rubberized grip fit his meaty palm perfectly. “A .50-caliber Desert Eagle.”

  “.50?” Jason said with a whistle. “What’s wrong with a .45?”

  “Because they make a .50,” Kowalski said, stating the obvious.

  He shoved the large pistol into his belt.

  Once out onto Independence Avenue, Jason took a call from Painter as Kowalski wound them in a big circle around the Mall. He ended up behind a massive dump truck trundling and filling his side of the street. Though the National Museum of Natural History was a direct arrow shot across the Mall from the Castle, the circuitous route was further complicated by an ongoing construction project to restore the Mall’s ragged turf, which had turned this section of parkland and fields into towering piles of dirt and rock.

  Jason hung up. “The director managed to convince DC Metro that it was a false alarm, blaming an electrical surge from the neighboring construction project. But such a ruse will only buy us a narrow window of time.”

  Kowalski gave a shake of his head. He had to hand it to the director. Painter was a master puppeteer when it came to pulling the strings around Washington.

  Jason added, “We’ve also got clearance to enter the museum through an entrance on the northwest side. It’s located—”

  Kowalski cut him off. “I know where it’s at.”

  He had sometimes used that entrance to reach Elizabeth’s office. It was the most direct route, bypassing the tumult of the main entrance and its flock of tourists. When the dump truck turned onto Madison, Kowalski finally got clear of it and sped up, reaching the parking lot on the western side of the museum.

  He raced across the empty lot and skidded to a hard stop near the entrance. They both tumbled out and ran for the door. Jason’s head swiveled from side to side, watching for any sign of the enemy. Someone had set off that alarm. But did that mean they were already inside, or had they merely tripped the alarm to flush their quarry out into the open?

  Only one way to find out.

  Jason reached the entrance first and swiped a black card with a holographic ∑ embossed on one side through an electronic reader. The door unlocked with a loud click of its dead bolt. Jason began to open the door, but Kowalski moved him aside and led the way with his Desert Eagle. He entered a nondescript anteroom with a door ahead that opened onto the main levels of the museum. The mouth of a dark stairwell yawned on his left.

  “Where is this doctor?” Kowalski asked as Jason followed him inside.

  “The alarm was triggered from a first-floor window on the building’s north side.” He pointed in that general direction. “To keep her well away from that spot, we told her to hole up in Dr. Polk’s old office in the basement.”

  K
owalski glanced sharply back at the kid. “Elizabeth’s old place?”

  Why send her to my ex’s office?

  “We knew Dr. Polk’s room was empty. The director also chose the rendezvous because you are familiar with the surrounding area. In case we run into trouble.”

  Great . . . I’m really beginning to hate this place.

  With a sigh, Kowalski led Jason to the stairwell and headed down. The steps ended at a maze of narrow passageways that spread under the museum. The way forward was dimly lit with the crimson glow of emergency lights. It was one of the oldest sections of the building, barely touched during the periodic renovations of the public spaces. Beneath their boots, the old marble floors had been honed to a lustrous sheen by decades of shuffling feet. Wooden doors with frosted glass windows lined either side, each pane etched with scholarly enterprises: Entomology, Mineral Sciences, Vertebrate Zoology, Botany.

  Kowalski knew the path to Elizabeth’s office all too well. Memories flickered in the shadows of his mind as he tried to concentrate, to listen for any sign of threat. He remembered picnicking with Elizabeth in her office, hearing her laugh, basking in her smiles. He remembered the two of them stealing away into the old steam tunnels beneath the museum to smoke cigars, which even she partook of on occasion. He also remembered other midnight hours, dozing on her couch while she finished cataloging a new shipment from Greece or Italy, other times when they were engaged in less studious pursuits, wrapped in each other’s arms. He felt his blood stirring at those last thoughts and pushed them down—deep down.

  Now was not the time.

  Still, he could not escape darker memories, of those times when his impatience irritated her, when smiles turned to frowns; when words, spoken on both sides, became painful. They were both hotheaded, both too easy to bruise. Perhaps with time, they would have learned to settle into each other with more care, but all too often he’d been called away on missions abroad, on pursuits he hadn’t even been able to talk about upon returning. Likewise, she’d been gone for weeks on end: to dusty digs, to laborious scientific conferences. And while apart, their intimate daily calls, which had previously often lasted for hours, had eventually faded to curt text messages.

  And when the end had finally come, it hadn’t been any operatic act of betrayal. It had simply been the tide of their relationship ebbing away, until neither of them had been able to dismiss the inevitable. Ever the smarter of the two, Elizabeth had recognized it first and laid out the facts over a long, cold dinner.

  Still, it hurt.

  At last, a dark door appeared ahead. The frosted glass read Anthropology. Below that, hanging on the door from small hooks, was a black metal placard with silver letters that spelled Elizabeth Polk, PhD.

  “Here we are,” Kowalski said needlessly.

  Surprised that she had left the placard, he bent down to unhook it. As he did so, the pane shattered above his head, accompanied by the loud retort of a pistol blast.

  Jason dropped to one knee and spun around, cleanly pulling out his side arm, a SIG Sauer P226. He squeezed the trigger twice, shooting blindly down the hall in the direction of the gunshot, hoping to discourage the sniper from firing again. He wasn’t entirely successful. A second gunshot blasted from the shadows, splintering wood from the doorframe by his shoulder.

  Then a cannon went off by his ear.

  A clipped cry rose from down the hall.

  Kowalski held his smoking weapon and growled at him. “Get inside!”

  Jason dove behind the large man’s bulk, grabbed the doorknob—thankfully, the door was unlocked—and shoved the way open with his shoulder. He rolled inside, drawing Kowalski in his wake. Once clear, Jason slammed the office door closed, dislodging a few shattered panes of glass. Though it offered little protection, he thumbed the lock.

  “Sara,” he called to the dark room, while staying low. “It’s Jason Carter.”

  A small gasp rose from behind the desk. “I’m over here.”

  He spotted a shadow rising from out of hiding.

  “Stay down,” he warned.

  “They must’ve tailed us down here,” Kowalski grumbled, rising enough to peer out the shattered window.

  It made sense. They should have been more cautious. The enemy couldn’t have known where Dr. Gutierrez had holed up.

  Until we led them here, Jason realized.

  Either he and Kowalski had been spotted entering the building, or some small expeditionary force had already been inside and had come upon their path down here. Either way, they were trapped.

  “This way,” Kowalski said and headed away from the door in a hunched crouch. “There’s a small storeroom in the back.”

  Jason followed, collecting Dr. Gutierrez along the way.

  Wearing a white lab coat over jeans, she sidled next to him. She clutched a black leather satchel to her chest with one arm. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Don’t thank us yet.

  Jason looked around. The office was large, with shelved walls, a large desk, and an old leather sofa against one wall. But besides a handful of stray papers, it had been thoroughly cleaned out. Kowalski led them to a narrow door on the far side, which stood ajar.

  They all piled into the next room, which was twice the size of the office and divided by tall metal shelves. A pair of wooden pallets leaned against one wall. Jason imagined the storeroom had been used as a staging ground for Dr. Polk’s work on her antiquities collection.

  Kowalski closed the door, which was made of solid pine. Still, it wouldn’t give a determined enemy much of a problem, especially since there was no way to lock it from the inside. This didn’t seem to bother Kowalski as he headed over to the middle of the room and bent down to a solid grate in the floor. It was sealed with a padlock.

  Dropping to a knee and using the light of his cell phone for illumination, Kowalski spun the dial back and forth. Behind them, a tinkle of glass whispered from the neighboring room. Jason pictured a hand reaching through the shattered pane for the lock.

  Hurry . . .

  Kowalski freed the padlock and hauled up the heavy grate with one arm. A dark opening yawned below. “There’s a ladder on the left. It’s a short climb down into one of the service tunnels beneath the museum.”

  Jason didn’t question Kowalski’s plan or where it might lead. For the moment, the goal was to stay one step ahead of the enemy. He went first, mounting the steel rungs, then helping guide Sara along with him. Rushing, he stumbled as one boot slipped. He ended up sliding the rest of the way down, which luckily was only a couple of yards. He landed roughly, but managed to keep his feet and get Sara safely to the ground.

  Overhead, Kowalski closed the grate with a soft clang, then slid down the ladder without a boot touching a rung. He had plainly done this before.

  Jason unclipped a penlight and flashed it along the tunnel. The place was sweltering, smelling of wet cement, and echoing with trickles of water. Old pipes, frosted with cobwebs, trailed along the ceiling.

  “Where are we?” Sara asked.

  Kowalski pushed between them and led the way forward. “Old steam and service tunnels. Elizabeth and I would sometimes sneak down here and smoke.” He patted the walls. “It was the safest place without having to climb all the way back outside.”

  Jason heard a mix of sorrow and wistfulness in his voice.

  “Where are we going?” Sara asked, voicing Jason’s own concern.

  Kowalski coughed to clear his throat a bit. “Place is a maze down here. Some say these tunnels once reached all the way under the White House, but with heightened security, much of it’s been partitioned and walled off.” He pointed ahead as he turned a corner. “There are stairs this way that lead back up to a service door into the museum.”

  As they made the corner, a loud clang rang out behind them.

  The enemy had discovered their escape route.

  Jason flashed his light across the floor of the tunnel. Their footprints in the grime would be easy to follow.


  Muffled voices rose behind them.

  “Time to haul ass,” the big man warned, urging them forward.

  Again, Jason didn’t question his plan.

  Kowalski shoved the Desert Eagle back into his belt and followed the others up the cement stairs. He fumbled with his wallet as he climbed, searching through its contents.

  Where the hell are you . . . ?

  By now, Jason had reached the stained cement landing at the top of the stairs. A yellow emergency bulb offered meager illumination, enough to reveal a nondescript steel door. It looked like it dated from the museum’s opening day, but a modern electronic lock sealed it securely.

  Jason tugged on the handle, but it was no use.

  Kowalski’s fingers finally plucked a card from the many stuffed into a side pocket of his tattered leather billfold. It was an old staff keycard. In one corner, barely discernible under the glow of the lone bulb, was a tiny picture of Elizabeth Polk. Her chestnut hair framed high cheekbones, while a pair of petite eyeglasses balanced on her nose. Elizabeth had given the card to him shortly after they had begun dating, making it easier for him to come and go while visiting her. He should have returned it or cut it up, but he hadn’t been able to do either.

  The furtive patter of boots on stone echoed up from below.

  “Kowalski . . .” Jason hissed to him.

  Kowalski hurried forward with the card, praying it was still coded to this service door. He swiped the card down the slit under a red glowing light—it remained red.

  Motherfu—

  Jason stared at him with huge eyes. Dr. Gutierrez huddled at his shoulder. Beads of sweat pebbled her forehead, while her lips were fixed in a grimace of fear. They were sitting ducks up here.

  Kowalski rubbed the keycard’s magnetic strip over the sleeve of his jacket. “Sometimes these old readers are finicky.”

  God, I hope that’s it.

  A shout rose from below as the enemy abandoned any furtiveness.

  Jason swung to the side and used the muzzle of his gun to shatter the lone bulb in its cage. Darkness fell around them, offering some shelter. The kid pulled the woman low, while pointing his gun toward the stairs. He fired once to encourage their pursuers to proceed more cautiously.