Pitfall (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

“D
o you know what time it is, sir?”

The young guard manning the gate was looking at me about the way you’d think, like I was about a half-bubble off plumb. I’d just showed him my EPA badge. He hadn’t seemed terribly awestruck by it.

“Yeah, I do. My Granny taught me how to tell time when I was just four. She used an old mantle clock that sat on a metal box holding Grandpap’s ashes. There wasn’t a whole lot left after the lightning had cooked him.” I flashed a madcap smile.

“Huh?”

“Well put, son. I can always spot a college man. Are you going to let me in or not?” I’ve always been long on audacity, and I was jazzed with adrenalin about what was surely coming, like I was before any action, and my speech was sharp.

He started to pick up the phone just inside his shack. “You know, maybe I should call Mr. Cross …”

“You do that. And he’ll tell you that as a duly authorized inspector of the EPA, I have
carte blanche
authority to make spot checks of any facility I choose in these United States, just about any old time I feel like it.” I had no idea if that was true; the important thing was that this dude believed it. “And then, in gratitude for your waking him from what I’m sure was a sound sleep, you and Mr. Cross can discuss your career options here. There probably won’t be as many as you might think.”

I could almost see the wheels turning in the guard’s head as he put the phone back down. “You at least need to sign in.”

“Fine.” He handed me his clipboard, and a second later I’d signed
John Fields
for what I hoped was the last time. Giving it back to him, the guard waved me through.

As I headed for the lot, I wondered what would I have done if he’d called my bluff and phoned Eli. I wasn’t sure, but I’d have laid even money Eli Cross has been a lot tougher to buffalo than that pimply faced post-adolescent at the gate.

From Shelly’s intel, the clock was rapidly ticking down to zero for Sarah. It looked like it was time to call in the cavalry. After parking the car and picking up my Blackberry off the seat, I punched in Seth Delacroix’s phone number, ready to give him our code word. I placed it up to my ear and listened. One ring. Two. Three. Uh-oh. Where was he? He told me he’d stay close. This wasn’t like him. Four rings. Five. His voicemail kicked in.

As the outgoing message finished, I tried to keep the frustration out of my tone. “Seth? John. Where are you? Pick up.” I waited. Nothing. “Listen, things are going down fast. Code word, Trebuchet. And when you come, bring friends.” I bit off the words like jerky as I considered all that Shelly had told me, adding, “Sooner rather than later, man. Oh, and one more thing. Once you’re inside, know you’re being tracked.” Holding the unit low, I texted him the same message, laboriously pecking it out. Stupid dinky buttons. Putting the unit away, I shook my head. I hoped he got it.

Now that I’d made it past the gate, one hurdle was over. I’d face another when I encountered whatever night guard was just inside at the desk. But I was mildly surprised. After coming down the tunnel and entering the lobby, go bag firmly in hand, I found the area unoccupied.

Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out the flash drive and headed over Albert Trask’s console. Once there I saw his computer was in standby mode and I awakened it. Putting the device in the port, I pulled up drive E. Moment of truth.  

Pressing the enter key, I stared at the screen. An “installing” bar appeared, with one blue box at the far left. As I watched, another appeared. Okay, it was working. As it ground along I idly wondered why I hadn’t been rushed by Boneless and his pet thugs yet, but there was no time to ponder it. A moment later, and the download was complete.

I hoped this would work. I sincerely did.

Making my way left and over to the golf carts, I noticed each one did indeed carry a number etched into a small brass tag attached to the bumper. Studiously avoiding number five, I chose the next one down. Once on I flipped the switch, and a second later was whizzing down the hall toward the far bank of elevators. Strangely enough, during the trip I didn’t encounter a single soul. On this level at least, so far the place seemed as deserted as a whist tournament, not even a skeleton crew.

Then I remembered the Pit, and tried to shut skeletons out of my mind.

Once at the elevator bank I shut the cart off, dismounted, and strode up to the middle elevator, pulling Shelly’s key card out of my shirt pocket as I walked. Touching it brought her face to mind. I hoped she and her boy were going be all right.

Shoving the card into the slot next to the door, I saw the small red light glowing above it instantly turn bright green. At the same time a soft ding sounded, and the door slid silently open, welcoming me inside.

I hesitated. Maybe it really would be best to wait for Seth and the cavalry to arrive … I shook that off. Unlike the old Rolling Stones song, I knew time wasn’t on my side, or Sarah’s. Or Shelly and her son’s, for that matter.

Squaring my shoulders, I walked in on the elevator’s black carpet. Inside, I glanced around, scanning the immediate area for sensors, and found none readily visible. The lift I was in appeared to be nothing more than what it seemed, an unadorned metal box with its controls recessed into a panel on my right.

Lips pressed together, I punched six. The doors slid smoothly closed, and I started to sink. Less than ten seconds later the descent slowed, and then stopped. Sticking my head out, I peered to my left and right down a sterile metal hallway. Deserted. Cautiously I stepped out, and the doors slid silently closed behind me. Every combat sense I possessed was screaming like banshees. This was too easy.

During out final chat Shelly had told me that once I left the elevators, turning right would take me to the dorms. As I sprinted, the area struck me as quite a bit smaller than Level One—no surprise there; it’s hard digging into rock. To get a firmer grasp of my bearings, I pictured GeneSys as a hideously huge deformed mushroom sunk deep into the earth, the dome above me being the elongated cap and the levels below, the stem.

Then I pulled up short. I could hear a muted humming all around, but very low, nearly in the subsonic range. Stopping, and feeling a bit foolish, I put my ear against the metal wall. The sound was louder here, but still as deep, like a Gregorian monk holding one long bass note. Machinery. Obviously the skunk works powering this nightmare.

In another few paces I found a door coming up on my right reading Locker Room. That’s where Shelly said I could find her Glock. Hoping I wouldn’t find the place full of black-garbed gents, I keyed the door swiftly and cleared it. The room was empty.

Walking over to the row of lockers, right away I found the one that read
S. Thornhill
. Again using the card, I opened the door. The inside of the locker was neat and organized, and hanging on a hook on the left was Shelly’s rig. The holster, like her uniform next to it, was as black as midnight. I pulled the Glock 23 from it and ejected the magazine. Full, all thirteen rounds. I knew if I racked the slide I’d find the fourteenth round “up the pipe” as enthusiasts put it; in other words, chambered. Reinserting the magazine, I placed the gun in the small of my back, well under my suit coat. Closing the locker door, I exited the room.

After going another few steps, I still hadn’t seen or heard anyone. That was both good, and bad. It was the kind of silence that slices through you, promising disaster. But as I rounded a curve, just a few feet away my question was answered. I drew up short, flattening myself against the wall. Just past me stood some sort of freestanding small cubicle, containing a seated man in hospital whites.

From this angle he looked fairly big, and I saw he was watching a bank of video screens. It took a second before I registered what this was: the equivalent of a nurse’s station. I glanced up. I must have been well-hidden because the man’s gaze at the monitors remained unchanged.

I hoped my luck would hold. One of the last things Shelly had told me during our chat was that if somebody ever got this far in, Boneless believed the combination of his lethally-armed troops and his own physical prowess would be enough to handle that unfortunate sod. All things considered, I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to test the security measures here if I could avoid it.

It was obvious there was no way around that station, and I wasn’t about to make like Little Egypt and try crawling past the thing on my belly like a reptile, so in the end there was nothing else for it but to stride boldly up and bluff my way past with a little country blather. The nurse manning the console was a swarthy, curly-haired cuss, and his eyes widened in alarm when he saw me. “What the
—?
Who are you? How did you get—”

“Evening. John Fields, EPA.” I held my go bag low, so he couldn’t see it. The man’s nametag read Mario Amonitos, RN, and my greeting was commanding as I addressed him. Lifting up my badge a bit (which by that time was looking a mite ratty), I went on, “I’m conducting an inspection.”

He didn’t buy it, his answer an unintelligible snarl as he reached down and yanked out something beneath his console.

Being that he was a male nurse, and to my old-line, nearly unreconstructed Southern chauvinist thinking, there to help people, I was almost a second too slow as I saw what Mario had clutched in his hand. A Glock 23, hell-black and swinging fast toward my sternum.

Happily my old unreconstructed reflexes kicked in, and before he had the chance to bring the weapon fully to bear I stretched across the partition and sent my fist crashing right into the bridge of Nurse Mario’s nose. With a startled cry and his eyes rolling in two separate directions, the man slammed over backwards, chair and all, out. No doubt about it, Cross’s men really needed some training. Cross. Training. Cross-training. Har.

Sucking my knuckles I muttered several harsh expletives as I waited for the pain to subside. I guessed I needed a refresher course myself. That was a highly stupid move I’d just pulled. I could well have broken my hand on the fool’s head, and then what?

Satisfied that Mario was no longer a threat, I took a cursory glance around, listening hard for the sound of black-clad reinforcements coming my way. Nothing. And that was good enough. It was high time for me to find that dorm, rescue Sarah, and get in the wind.

I started double-timing it, still hoping I was headed the right way. Common sense said the dorm had to be close to the nurse’s station … not that common sense was at a premium around here. Surprisingly, the dorm was closer than I’d thought. Fifty feet further down, and after stealthily following the curve of the wall, I came upon a recessed door. The sign on it read, simply, Female. Inserting the key card into the slot, I held my breath.

And just like on
Star Trek
, it slid open.

I paused a few seconds while my eyes adjusted. In contrast with the bright, almost acrid yellow light in the hallway, the dorm’s illumination was a muted blue.

Silently I crept three steps in, and the door slid closed behind me. Timer or electric eye, I couldn’t be sure which. I hoped it was the latter, because if my luck held there would be two of us leaving this room, and it wouldn’t do to be locked in.

As Shelly had related, there were twelve hospital beds, each holding a sleeping form. As I peered around, a crazy and unwelcome thought stole into my mind. What if this was the wrong dorm, and instead of helpless young girls, these bunks held a dozen highly-trained, razor-honed, ill-tempered commandos? Things would turn interesting in a quick hurry, no doubt. But I learned a long time ago that what my Granny said was absolutely the truth: you have to walk straight into what you don’t dare run away from.

At the foot of each bed hung a mounted beige plastic rack holding an electronic pad, glowing a soft green. The screen contained the name of the bed’s occupant as well as a bunch of obscure medical terms that meant less than nothing to me. I began moving silently down the row, checking the names.

The sixth bed down, I found her.

Chapter Twenty-three

B
ending low, I gently pulled the covers away from the girl’s face. On the luminescent data pad Sarah Cahill was listed simply as Raven, no last name. She pretty much matched the picture Jacob had given me of her.

I shook her softly. No response. I shook her a little harder, and her eyes snapped open. Before she could react I clamped my hand over her mouth. Her dark eyes grew huge and she began to twist, fighting me. She must have thought I was there to rape her.

Pressing down harder while trying my best not to hurt her, my whisper was stern. “I’m a friend, Sarah. Your father sent me to get you out.”

Like a spooked horse, she rolled her eyes my way. I wasn’t sure if she was getting it.

“A friend,” I muttered harshly again. “Of your father Jacob. My name’s John.”

She shuddered once more, and grew still. Her gaze still locked on mine, it seemed understanding dawned then, and she nodded.

I put my mouth close to her ear. “I’m going to pull my hand away. Please don’t make a sound. Okay?”

She nodded again.  This was the moment of truth. If sometime during her captivity here the girl had been brainwashed, she would scream. And that would be that. A guard—or two, or ten—would appear, and the situation would turn terminally ugly.

I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until my hand was completely withdrawn. Sarah blinked then, and said in a hushed voice, “Who did you say you were?”

Relief rushed in. “John Brenner,” I answered softly. “Your dad sent me.”

Tears welled up. “My—my father?”

I patted her hand. “Shh. You gave everybody quite a turn, kiddo.”

“But—”

Lightly I placed my finger on her cracked lips. “Later.” In the next bed over, another prisoner, a girl who looked to be near Sarah’s age, turned over and mumbled something in her sleep. Again I bent low, whispering adamantly, “We need to leave. Now.”

“But the others—?”

“We’ll get them out. I give you my word.”

If all went well, that is. Shelly had promised me she’d delay her and her son’s flight for a few hours; if I hadn’t contacted her by that time, she was to call in as much help as she could muster: Sheriff Hardesty and the state police for starters, and then the Feds and the National Guard if that didn’t work. That was my backup plan. And now that Seth was MIA, it seemed to be my only plan.

“Do I have time to change my clothes?” Sarah voiced the question quietly.

My answer was just as muted. “No time. We gotta go.”

She nodded once more and slid out of bed. I saw she was wearing some sort of shapeless sweatshirt outfit as her sleeping gear, and with a start I realized how small and frail she was, barely topping five feet. Size wise Sarah Cahill really wasn’t much more than a kid. My thoughts toward Eli Cross and his son grew increasingly darker.

That prompted me to murmur, “Are you dizzy? Are you strong enough to walk?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have they been feeding you?”

“Yes.” She seemed hesitant. “But it’s awful. Some kind of nutrient paste, I think. It makes some of the girls sick.”

I wondered if she was one of those. “You?”

“Sometimes …” Again her eyes filled. “I just want to go
home.”

“Me too.” I held out my hand. “So let’s rock.”

Taking her small hand in mine, we began padding back toward the door. As we went I cast an eye on the other girls. They didn’t stir.

Reaching the portal, it silently slid open. I turned to Sarah with a reassuring smile. A short walk past an unconscious Nurse Mario, an elevator trip, a golf cart ride, and we were home free. Holding the girl at arm’s length behind me, we stepped through.

And ran smack into Doctor Ernst Manfred.

The old man and I rebounded off each other, both of us just barely keeping our footing. I didn’t have time to say a word, or even check Sarah’s reaction. Because at that same split second something very hard crashed into the back of my skull, and the world went black.

*

Somebody—maybe it was Granny—had once said there was nothing to life, really: all you had to do was make sure you woke up one more time than you fell asleep.

Good advice, but right then sleeping was sounding good. At least it beat the awful pounding in my head. Bright, glaring light flashed everywhere, lancing past my eyeballs and darting through the highways of my brain like a thousand white-hot needles.

I groaned, not much caring who heard me. I’d been concussed before, both in sports and combat, and now it seemed I had been again.

A blurry shadow crossed my vision, momentarily shutting out a bit of that harsh candlepower. Squinting up, straining to focus, I tried lifting my hand to shield my eyes, to no avail. It was only then I came to the realization I was sitting bolt upright in some sort of metal chair, and was clamped to the thing as tightly as a trussed-up, county fair hog.

Before I could think more on it I felt a stinging sensation in my arm, and a second later someone behind me withdrew a syringe from my right triceps.

Whatever the stuff was, it worked fast. That’s when another piece of news registered. Before securing me to the chair, somebody had removed half of my clothing, including my wallet, suit coat, dress shirt, tie, belt, watch, and Blackberry, leaving me clad only in my pants, socks, dress boots, and undershirt. And my BVDs, I hoped.

Oddly, they’d left my wedding ring alone. Why hadn’t they stripped me completely naked? For some reason that bothered me more than anything. Not surprisingly, the guns, both Shelly’s Glock and my Browning, and the extra magazines, were missing too, as well as my go bag with my dive knife, my flash bangs, my Starlite goggles, everything that was in it.

“Welcome back, Mr.  Brenner.”

I squinted at the indistinct figure, trying to see who it was. That made my vision swim, causing my mind to feel like a garden slug crawling along in a heavy fog. As my sight gradually continued to clear the figure deliquesced into that of Eli Cross. He was still wearing the same suit from earlier in the day.

“How … long …?” I rasped. I felt like I had the world’s worst hangover.

“Were you out? About two hours.” He went on, disapproval in his face, “I’m sorry Charles struck you so hard. Sometimes he gets carried away. Rest assured, I’ve spoken to him about it. The injection he just administered should take effect soon. Until then, please relax. Were I you, I’d use the next few moments for introspection. The next sequence of events is entirely your call.”

What sequence? Each word, each sound reverberated inside my skull, and my thoughts were as bitter as gall. This supposed “rescue” of Sarah had gone entirely too smoothly. I’d erred badly, and made the same rookie mistake I’d always warned my men against: don’t get cocky. Unexpected complications were part of any op, and stupidly, I’d pushed that aside. By losing focus, I’d made the worst mistake a soldier can make. I’d gotten emotionally involved in an operation.

An almost tangible wave of defeat washed over me as I bitterly realized I’d been effortlessly and completely snared. Now it seemed Sarah and I were going to pay for that with our lives. It was a wonder the two of us hadn’t been tossed into the Pit already. I just hoped Eli would have the decency to kill us first.

But that megalomaniac was right about the injection. Whatever Boneless had given me worked fast. Within another twenty seconds the pain ringing in my head had receded by at least a third, coalescing into a dull pounding slam.

Speaking of our friend Boneless Chuck, there he was, standing next to his dad, both of them looking like a couple of bookends from hell. They were smiling at me as if I was a long-lost relative, only now come home.

I surveyed the room I was in. I had no idea what level we were on, but my cell was maybe ten by ten or so, with the chair I was secured in bolted dead center to the floor. The wall directly across from me wasn’t metal; instead it appeared to be one solid mirror, top to bottom, side to side. I was well-acquainted with these. Two-way glass.

On my right side, just out of reach, stood a long, narrow table on wheels, like you might find used in surgery. But it didn’t hold just the items of a surgeon’s trade. Resting on its surface were more straps, along with spiky tools, small saws, long-handled ratchet gizmos, and more odd knives and razor-sharp blades than you’d find in a cutlery shop. I swallowed. I bet I could guess who Eli and Boneless planned to use them on. Worse, in the middle of that clutter, and tantalizingly just out of reach, rested my gear, including both guns I’d brought. Beside them sat a blue folder.

The wall on my left, incongruously, held two immense, deep red leather Morris chairs facing mine. Between them stood a tall metal ashtray on a fancy white marble stand. For all the world it looked as the objects had been lifted whole from the smoking room at a London gentleman’s club.

Seeing that, I suddenly knew what they were for, and I grew cold. A couple of people could sit comfortably in those chairs and watch as various and sundry tortures were inflicted on the poor, luckless wretch clamped down before them. In this case, me.

Eli smiled. “How are you feeling now, Mr.  Brenner?”

“Oh, top-notch.” My reply held more bravado than was warranted, my slurred speech sounding hollow in my ears. In truth, I was taking inventory. The back of my head pulsed with incessant pain, and even without being able to touch it, I knew it was pulpy and crusted with blood.

“Excellent.”

“And I’ll ask, since I know you want me to. What tipped you off?”

This time he laughed. It sounded deep and genuine, as if we were a couple of good friends enjoying a fine evening. “Your thumb.”

I knew it, but I played dumb. “What?”

“Your thumb. There’s a micro scanner built into the button next to my door. We’ve been having a few problems with it, but it seems to be working fine now.”

Security glitches. That’s why I hadn’t been rushed by guards when I’d installed the virus into their computer system.

Eli continued, “This morning when you pressed the button, your thumbprint was instantly scanned into our system. By the time you and I were finished with our business, your complete dossier had been accessed and downloaded.” He turned. “Charles, if you would be so kind?”

Silently his son handed him the blue folder from the surgical table.

“Thank you.” Opening it, Eli began to read aloud. “John Jebstuart Brenner was born in the poverty-stricken coal town of Gibbs, West Virginia, on May 8, 1972. His mother Alice, a seamstress, disappeared when he was four, leaving him to be reared by his frequently out of work alcoholic father, Sam, and his paternal grandmother, Maxine.”

I was highly ticked that anyone had the temerity to break my privacy, especially him.

“This report says as a youth you were an unusually good student, graduating from high school when you were only sixteen. This gained you a scholarship to college, the first anyone from Gibbs had ever received. After graduating
magna cum laude
from Ohio State University with a bachelor’s in pre-law, and doing so in only three and a half years, you then joined the Cincinnati police force as a uniformed officer. Two years later, on a night you were working the late shift, your pregnant wife—” He cocked an eyebrow. “A boy, wasn’t it?—and small daughter were killed in an unfortunate accident. Shortly thereafter you resigned from the CPD and joined the service. The United States Army, to be exact.”

He turned the page. Why he thought it was important I hear this, I have no idea.

“After basic training you applied for, and were accepted into, the 101st Airborne Rangers. There you were an exceptional soldier, quickly gaining your officer’s commission. Overseas you earned the Bronze and Silver Stars, the Distinguished Service Cross, as well as many other accolades.” Looking up and marking the page with his finger, he regarded me. “It seems you thrive on danger.” He paused. “Or is it a death wish?”

He was right about that. I did have a death wish. His.

Eli returned to the document. “You served with distinction in several theaters of combat, earning more commendations. And that’s when the wheels fell off. In early 2006, while on a night mission in Iraq, your unit was attacked by insurgent forces, and your entire command was wiped out. All except you, of course.” He smiled. “I’ve heard when that happens, frequently the one who survives is consumed with guilt. Is that true, Mr.  Brenner?”

I didn’t respond.

“But here’s the real pity. Right before that incident you’d been selected for Delta Force training, which is made up of top members of the Special Forces branches of the armed services. Quite an accomplishment. However, due to your debilitating injuries that appointment was never to come to fruition for you. After being airlifted away from that last battlefield, your journey ended at Walter Reed Hospital, where during your year’s stay you learned to walk again.” He smiled. “Rather like a broken toy soldier they’d tried to fix.”

He closed the folder. “I won’t go on. You know the story, after all. So you see, I knew all about you even before you’d left my office.” His lips twisted unnaturally in grim humor. “That’s aggravating, isn’t it? I mean, for you.”

Reading the scorn in his eyes, I said, “So I was dead before I’d even started. But that begs the question. Why didn’t you kill me right away? Why let me keep up the charade?”

Boneless chimed in as he crouched down next to me, “Yours was the first serious security breach we’ve encountered here, Mr.  Brenner. We wanted to put our system through its paces.” His aspect was frigid. “We found it works admirably.”

“My son is quite right.” Eli’s lifeless eyes crawled across my face. “And you won’t be needing this any more. But I did want you to watch.” With that he snatched up my Blackberry from the table and hurled it to the floor.

As I stared at the smashed remains, the old man said calmly, “Didn’t you wonder at the metal around us? Did you think that was done simply for the architectural design?”

Remaining mute, I reflected on the loss of my only means of communication.

Boneless stood up. “I’m sure Albert Trask told you everything here is state of the art. And so it is.” He motioned around with one skinny arm. “The floors, the ceilings, even the walls themselves all contain the latest in scanning technology. We hoped one day to give our system a real-world, real-time test.” He nodded. “For that we thank you.”

“Glad to oblige.” I licked my lips, tasting blood. “Now what?”

Eli’s voice was the very tone of reason as he walked over and sat in one of the Morris chairs. “Why, as I said before, that depends entirely on you, Mr.  Brenner. You know you’ll die here, of course.”

I didn’t answer.

“When and how that happens, however, depends solely on how cooperative you are with Charles.”

“I don’t understand.” But I did. God help me, I did.