The blast of air knocked Greg off his feet. He fell back and threw his arms over his face to block the dust and flying cement chunks. He coughed and still couldn’t find clean air.
They’d blasted a hole in the wall.
The president continued to drone on over the chaos, but the outside guards had blasted a hole in the wall. It wasn’t large enough for a person. Not yet. Greg heard people shouting on the outside, ready to set off the next bomb.
McCormick lay on the ground, moaning.
As one, Greg and Oliver jumped up, grabbed each of the commander’s arms, and ran.
They sprinted the opposite direction of Carrie and the freed prisoners, dragging McCormick along with them.
sixty
CARRIE BRACED AGAINST THE bathroom wall for another explosion. The first one had sounded like a bomb.
Greg.
Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back.
There wasn’t time.
Half the fugitives stood in front of the bathroom door, blocking it. The other half listened in fear like she was. Their faces were damp with perspiration, their eyes etched with terror, but they all stayed silent, waiting.
Footsteps raced down the hallway on the other side of the door. Guards shouted, running toward the explosion. Thankfully, the footsteps passed up the bathroom and kept racing down the hallway.
Carrie had to get those people out of there.
They could go out the front entrance she and Greg had come in, but she doubted the soldiers—even with the explosion—had left the entrance to the compound unguarded. If any guards returned, searching for them, they would check the bathroom and easily shoot through any blocked door. These people could still die.
She spun around.
For the second time in a day, she scrambled over to a counter and climbed on top of it. Her head whirled with the adrenaline and rise in elevation, but on top of the counter, she went on tiptoe. Reaching as high as she could, she pushed the same ceiling tile out of the way that Isabel had.
The space above looked dark and small. Strangely, she could hear the broadcast even better with the ceiling tile gone, as if President Rigsby was speaking to the walls themselves. The man was insane, continuing while the training ground was under siege.
She had no idea where Isabel, Braden, and Richard had gone, or what might be up there, but she reached up and grabbed the sides of the opening. One side felt stronger than the other, strong enough to support her weight, but on tiptoes, she could barely catch hold. Even then, she’d never done a pull-up in her life.
“What are you doing?” a man from the group said, running over to her.
“My friends went up this way,” Carrie said. “Can you give me a push? I think this is a way out.”
“Hold on,” he said. “I’m from Kearney’s group. Let me go first.”
“Kearney’s group?” she said in surprise. He looked as rough as the others who had been in the holding cell, but maybe not so beaten down—or skinny. His body looked rock-hard and solid.
“I came with McCormick this morning,” he said. “I was taken with the commander. I’ve been a rebel for years—one of the few in that holding cell who probably deserved to die—so let me do this. Just give me a second to get up there.”
He climbed up beside her on the counter and used his incredible arm strength to pull himself up into the hole in the ceiling. He started to flounder, but she grabbed his foot and hoisted him the rest of the way in. He disappeared into the darkness, scuttling through the ceiling.
“I think it leads to an office,” Carrie called. Whether that office would be empty or a safe place to hide two dozen people, she didn’t know, but it had to be better than an unlockable women’s bathroom on the same level as the action.
A minute later, the rebel poked his face back out of the hole. “Found it. Send people up. I’ll pull them through.”
More footsteps and shouting in the hallway.
Carrie hopped off the counter and ran back to the group. “Go,” she said quietly. “One by one. Help each other up. That man will tell you where to go from there. Please hurry.”
The people moved and climbed onto the bathroom counter. Like a giant vacuum, the ceiling started swallowing them up until it was just her and a huge guy left blocking the door.
“Go,” Carrie said to the big guy. “I’ll come up last.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’ll break the ceiling if I go up—or someone’s arm. I’ll just hide in one of the stalls and hope I don’t scare the daylights out of any nice ladies coming in.”
Another explosion shook the compound. The bathroom walls reverberated. The sound echoed right through Carrie’s heart.
Greg was out there.
So was Oliver.
“Come on!” Kearney’s rebel urged from the ceiling. “We’re out of time.”
The big guy nudged Carrie away. “Just go. I’ll be fine.”
She raced over to the counter and caught hold of the rebel guy’s arm. With incredible strength, he swung her up and inside the dark ceiling cove. Another wave of dizziness assaulted her. Heights weren’t her friend. Neither were dark, tiny, enclosed spaces.
“Lean your weight to the right, on the scaffolding,” he said through the semi-darkness. “Then follow the others toward that light. It goes straight up into an office.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Jershon,” he supplied. “I’m Jershon.”
“And I’m Carrie. Thank you, Jershon.” She motioned down through the hole. “Is there any way to get that man up? He says he just wants to hide, but those guards could come back any minute.”
“Hey, big guy,” Jershon called down. “Come on. Give me your hand. We’ll get you up.”
The man shook his head.
“Come on,” Carrie said. “We can do it.”
Lying flat on the dark, dusty framework, she reached her hand down. Jershon did the same.
The shouting grew in the hallway. The guards were returning. The big man shoved his weight against the door. He waved wildly at Carrie and Jershon to leave.
“Open up! Open up now or we’ll shoot!” someone shouted.
Something rammed against the bathroom door. Carrie’s heart jolted. The big guy planted his feet, pushing back.
Carrie was suddenly yanked up into the darkness. Before she could stop him, Jershon had slid the ceiling tile back into place.
“Go!” he hissed at her.
Frantic, Carrie started crawling.
She only made it a few steps when sudden gunfire rang through the women’s bathroom below them.
Carrie froze as if a bullet had struck her. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. The man blocking the door. They’d shot him. Squeezing her burning eyes shut, she listened for his scream, his grunt, or anything to let her know that he was still alive. Nothing from the man, but heavy footsteps sounded through the bathroom.
Stall after bathroom-stall door banged open.
“Clear!” one guard yelled. Then they took off, racing back out.
Carrie’s breathing sped up.
That man was dead.
In the semi-darkness, Jershon waved her onward, but she couldn’t move. Paralyzed, she pictured that man’s face, lying on the bathroom floor, never to move again. Like Jamansky. Like Mariah, Jenna, and everyone she’d ever watched die. And what about Greg?
She squeezed her eyes shut. Two dozen people still needed her. She had to get them to safety before they followed the same fate. So she forced her limbs to move again. One hand in front of the other through the dusty, dark space.
As she neared the opening, someone reached down and pulled her up into the office.
“Well,” a man said, gripping her tightly, “there’s a face I’m thrilled to see.”
Surprised, Carrie looked up and saw an older man with a graying goatee and long ponytail.
“Richard!” She threw her dusty arms around him. “You’re here?”
“Is
abel and Braden left me behind to be the lookout,” Richard said, “which is apparently the only thing someone my age is good for.” He paused to lend a hand to Jershon, pulling him into the office as well. “I’ve been waiting for them to come back this way, but then this group of ruffians suddenly emerged from the bathroom.” His smile faded, noticing Carrie’s expression. “What happened?” Stiffening, he looked back down into the dark hole. “Where’s Greg?”
Carrie explained quickly. Greg and Oliver. McCormick. The firing squad. At the same time, her gaze swept over the small office. No windows, and only one door out. She could hear the president’s speech still going on outside, but otherwise, things seemed quiet around them, at least to her less-than-perfect ears.
“Do you know a way out of here?” she asked.
“I’ve done a little searching,” Richard said, “but as far as I can tell, the only way out that doesn’t take us past the grand proceedings is back the way we came, through the bathroom.”
Carrie shook her head. “Not an option. There has to be something else.”
“I can get us out,” Jershon said, breaking into the conversation. “McCormick told us every possible exit in case we split up. There’s one not far from here, through a back access. If you’ll allow me, Miss Carrie, I can lead us out undetected.”
Startled, she looked at Richard, but Richard was looking at her as well, as if expecting her to decide.
“That would be great,” Carrie said. “We’ll all follow you. Thank you, Jershon.”
“No, thank you. And when you see him,” Jershon added, “thank your guy Greg for me, too. I’m indebted to him now—twice.”
Her eyes widened. “You know Greg?”
“I met him the first time he came to Kearney’s camp. I’m sure he doesn’t remember me, but when he and Isabel were exposed as spies, Kearney wanted to kill them. Isabel chucked a grenade. In the chaos, I lost track of my son. He tripped over someone—Greg—who had recovered his gun by then.” Jershon took a moment to compose himself. “Greg was about to shoot my son—it would have been self-defense in the chaos—but when he saw he was just a kid, he chucked the gun and ran. So, I’m indebted to him double-fold. For the rest of my life, I will always remember Greg Pierce—and you, Miss Carrie. Will you please thank him for me?”
Her throat thickened. “I will.” And then she forced herself to add two words. “I promise.” Because that promise meant she would see Greg again. With both of them alive.
“Alright,” Jershon said to the group. “From here on out, there’s no sound. We’re heading out into the open, so stay close.”
* * * * *
“That way!” McCormick pointed. “Down to the tunnels.”
Greg and Oliver raced, unable to be gentle with the commander like they should have been. They each slung one of his arms over their shoulders, carrying some of his weight. While the commander could walk, he was slower than they needed to be. They practically pushed him along as he ordered Burke’s group where to go. Anytime they jarred him, he yelled out in pain.
“Is it your ribs, sir?” Oliver asked him. “If so, take slow, easy breaths. It will help.”
Commotion reigned out behind them. Heavy footfalls. They were being pursued—which wasn’t all bad. Greg figured if soldiers came after them, Carrie might have a chance to get the others free.
Half of Burke’s men stayed in front, scouting out the way. The other half brought up the rear, rifles up, keeping watch. Every few minutes, somebody shouted out a warning and shots were fired. Greg never checked to see who or what happened, but after a time, no one was left to pursue them. He kept racing through the compound, holding McCormick up as he showed the way.
Burke and the others stopped at a steel door.
“Locked!” Burke called back. “Security access only. Now what, sir?”
“My card,” McCormick said, voice strained. “In my breast pocket. Grab my card.”
Greg pulled out McCormick’s security card with his photo in the corner and handed it forward. Burke swiped it through the panel. A light flashed green, and they were in.
Down they climbed into the deep recesses of the Naperville training grounds. The lower they descended, the quieter it grew. Greg hadn’t even known the compound had tunnels beneath it. Motion-detecting lights flickered on ahead of them.
Finally, the stairs ended. A long, straight tunnel lit up in front of them. The air was cool and stale in the tunnel, and the only sounds came from the beat of their footsteps and the president’s speech, piped into overhead speakers.
Greg would have gladly shot out the speakers if he knew where they were—or if he still had a gun. Oliver held the one he’d been given. Even with all the chaos, Rigsby kept up the charade of a normal, everyday speech for the sake of his beloved live broadcast. The guy was certifiably insane.
“We’ve overcome many hurdles,” the president was saying, his voice echoing down the long, straight tunnel. “Fighting for things we believe to be right and good…”
Annoyed, Greg used the opportunity to catch McCormick up on the little he knew about Isabel’s plan. The commander’s face was purple in some places and bloody in others, but he nodded, listening.
“She was gonna get Kearney and his guys inside,” Greg said, “but I haven’t seen them. And since Rigsby’s still droning on, that can’t be a good sign.”
“Then it’s up to us to finish it,” McCormick said. “Wait. Stop.” He twisted free of Greg and Oliver’s grasp. “I can make it on my own now.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Oliver said.
“Yes,” McCormick said. “I need to get my feet under me before the fun starts.”
Fun.
Commander McCormick wrapped his arms around his middle, as if holding himself together, but then he started off through the tunnel, somewhat hunched over. Greg and Oliver followed, each ready to jump in and help if needed. But McCormick’s strides grew steady and solid. Whatever injuries he had were on the upper half of him.
“Is Ashlee really here?” Oliver asked after a minute, under his breath.
Greg shot him a dark look. “Of all the things to worry about right now?”
“Sorry,” Oliver said, instantly contrite.
It took a moment for Greg to realize why Oliver’s thoughts were on Ashlee. Carrie wasn’t far from Greg’s own worries.
“Ashlee’s outside waitin’ for us,” Greg offered. “You know, she’s not half bad. She’s helped us a ton. She’s kinda part of our clan now.”
Oliver stopped. “Really?”
“Keep movin’!” Greg growled. “Come on. Focus.”
“Sorry.”
Oliver started jogging again.
The tunnel seemed to last forever. Lights only flickered on in small sections, barely illuminating the area before them.
“Jamansky might be dead,” Greg continued after a moment, “but I’m guessin’ all your sleuthing with Ashlee will be enough to finish off Mayor Phillips so he can’t train up a new round.”
Oliver nodded several times. “Good. I hate that guy almost as much. And Ashlee is…she…”
“She’s the one who got me this uniform.” Greg paused to catch his breath. “She wanted to come get you, but since we came in the same way she already had, I didn’t think it was safe.”
“Right. Good. Safe,” Oliver huffed.
“You know,” Greg said in between breaths, “Carrie thinks Ashlee kinda has a thing for you.”
Oliver glared sideways at him. “Not funny.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be.”
Somehow Oliver sped up, pulling ahead, but Greg could have sworn a tiny smile was tugging upward on the guy’s mouth.
Burke and the others finally stopped, letting the rest of them catch up. They’d come to an intersection.
“This is where we split up,” McCormick said, struggling to catch his breath. “There are counter snipers on every corner. Oshan, you’re my best shooter. Take three guys…that way to the west tower. Plan on
heavy guards once you exit the R corridor.” His grip tightened around his middle section. “Take out who you must. Once on the tower, nothing fancy. If you can get in a shot at Rigsby, do it.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Oshan said, snapping to attention. He pointed to a few men and took off in that direction.
“The rest of us,” McCormick said, wincing with a sudden stab of pain, “take a direct approach. We go directly after the president.”
Burke took the lead again. Guns raised and ready for anything, they started forward, though at a slower, more-ready pace.
Greg glanced down at his watch. Six minutes since he’d left Carrie. With luck, she and the others were already outside, free. He tried to picture her breaking out into the sunshine. She would meet up with Ashlee, and if the two of them knew what was best, they would race to get as far from here as they could. He held onto that vision to make moving deeper into the compound more bearable.
Burke and the others reached another thick door and stopped.
“Is this the one, sir?” Burke called back.
“Yes.” McCormick leaned against the tunnel wall to catch his breath. “The president will have…well-armed agents surrounding him.” He pounded his chest in frustration. “Ah, I don’t have time to be injured.”
Greg started to move to offer help, but the commander waved him back.
“I’m fine. We need to move,” McCormick said. “Somebody find me an elevator!”
“On it, sir,” Burke said, reaching for the door.
“And Burke,” McCormick called. “If you see any rough-looking, homeless guys, don’t shoot. They’re with us.”
Nodding, Burke exited the tunnel with another soldier. The rest waited, catching their breath.
Sudden screaming broke out over the speakers. Shouts of alarm. Greg and the others turned, as if they could see what was happening on the outside. Chaos had erupted in the compound, and amazingly, the president wasn’t speaking anymore.
The president wasn’t speaking.
“Rigsby?” Greg said. “Do you think they got him?”
McCormick nodded. “Let’s hope so.”
Greg wanted to cheer, but he didn’t dare. Not yet. They listened another moment. Any excitement turned to dread in Greg’s gut as sudden pops of gunfire sounded through the speakers. People shooting.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 132
