The Masked Truth (18 page)

Not only is he worried about her, but that worry bolsters his determination to find the way out of this place.

For her? Oh, that’s so sweet. A little arrogant—that you have to be the one to save the day—but still sweet
.

There has to be another exit. There just might be. He cannot conceive of a building with front and rear doors and absolutely no other penetrable point of egress. An escape hatch, so to speak. Particularly if the building is being renovated. He doesn’t expect to find a convenient construction hole in the wall—whoops, did we leave that open?—but perhaps some spot that could, with the right tools, be breached.

You’re stretching, Max. You know you are
.

It doesn’t matter, because it gives him a goal. Something to focus on while trying not to worry about Riley, and between the two, he’s almost too preoccupied to fret about his meds wearing off. “Almost” being the operative word, because, yes, every time he thinks that, his mind swings that way. Rather like forgetting a patch of spotty skin until you look in the mirror, and then it’s all you think about.

Ah, those were the days, weren’t they, old chap? When an outburst of
acne vulgaris
could put a damper on the entire day, particularly if there was some big social event on the horizon and a pretty girl you hoped to impress. Because, by heavens, if she saw spots on your chin, that would be the end of it.

Really put things in perspective, didn’t it?

Perspective: a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something
.

He really could laugh now, to think that he’d actually worried a girl might turn him down if his skin was spotty that day. Acne came and went, and by his age it had gone completely, having never been much of a problem even at the height of adolescence. Schizophrenia, though? That was a different story. Here today, here tomorrow, here forever, and it’s nothing one can cure with a bit of cream. Even the meds are like the spot cover he’d once nicked from his mother’s makeup drawer. They do an imperfect job of hiding the problem, and as soon as they wear off, nothing has changed.

At least with spots, a girl knows what she is getting. With schizophrenia, presuming the meds were doing their job, any remaining quirks can be chalked up to just that. Quirks.

Quirk: a peculiar behavioral habit
.

Which he’d always had, and it never seemed to bother the girls. If anything, they found his quirks charming.

Perhaps they’ll find schizophrenia charming too
.

Yes, certainly. Who wouldn’t, really? Perfectly charming, knowing your boyfriend could go off his rocker at any moment, mistake you for the victim of demonic possession and—

And that’s enough of that. Focus, focus, focus. He needs to find a way out. For Riley.

Hmm, perhaps you took my jest seriously. Dating is quite off the menu, Maximus. No matter what you do for her, once you’re out that door, it’s ta-ta for now. It has to be. You know that, don’t you?

Yes, he knows that. Which means that for perhaps the first time in his life, he is doing something for a girl he likes with absolutely no hope of reward beyond a smile.

But it’s an amazing smile. Especially when it’s real, not her smile-to-be-polite or her smile-to-be-friendly or her no-really-I’m-fine smile. When it’s absolutely genuine, and it’s for him. All for him, because he’s done something to make her smile and maybe, for just a second, forget they are both completely snookered.

Because they aren’t. There is still hope. A gun, and if he can focus, he’ll find an escape hatch.

Back to the here and now …

Aaron has taken the lead, not surprisingly. Which is fine, because it means Max doesn’t have to second-guess himself. Also that Aaron doesn’t see him jump every time he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Gray and Predator are still systematically searching the building. Keeping out of their way continues to be easy, because they seem to see no reason to be quiet. Men unaccustomed to being quiet. Men like his father, full of bluster and noise, because, by God, they shouldn’t need to be quiet. Kings of the jungle and all that. Predators of the highest order. Only prey sneak about in silence. His father has the mind-set so ingrained that Max doubts he even notices he’s doing it, thumping and banging around the house like the proverbial bull in a china shop. These men are the same. Otherwise, they’d be quieter, use subterfuge to sneak up on the kids. As it is, they’re probably wondering why their prey always seems to be two steps ahead of them.

As they walk, Max has the map out. Aaron had turned once, seen him studying it and snorted, “You look like you’re hunting for buried treasure.”

“I am.”

Aaron only rolled his eyes, but it was true. Hidden treasure, at least. The elusive extra exit point. Perhaps a door that isn’t on the map. Or a room without an apparent door.

Really, Max? This is a warehouse. Not the Castle of Otranto. Nor an episode of
Scooby-Doo.
You aren’t going to lean against a fireplace and have a secret door pop open
.

He keeps looking, because he can, and because it focuses his mind on a task, and he’s now doing remarkably well at that. Focusing.

Just need an incentive, son. Some danger in your cozy life. I always worried about that with you—that you were a little soft, a little too fond of your books and your scribbled fancies. If you’d come and lived with me for a while, I’d have toughened you up. Now you see what happens. Get too comfortable in civilian life and it’s not just your body that goes soft. Your mind does too. Rots
.

Mmm, no, sir. While I hate to interrupt your pontificating, might I point out those weeks when you came to visit
—
just need a holiday—and spent half of it in your room, doing nothing? The nights when you came into my room and started shouting at me to start drill and Mum said you were sleepwalking? And the time you mistook me for an enemy combatant and
—
Oh, yes, sorry. We don’t talk about that, do we? My mistake. As you were saying, sir?

A secret door does not magically pop up as they walk.

And where would such a door lead? You’re in the middle of the building
.

Perhaps a basement?

In a warehouse? That mind you’re so proud of really is rotting a little, isn’t it?

There could be a basement, though he allows it is unlikely, given the past and present function of the structure.

Consider the original function of the structure, Max. What was it?

A warehouse. Used for storage. Which meant it was basically a box where one stores things. A single-story box split into two levels. They’ve added all the interior construction too. Walls, rooms, ceilings …

He slows.

Ceilings …

Aaron seems to sense he’s fallen back and glances over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. Max picks up the pace and closes the gap between them as his mind whirs.

The second-story ceiling. It isn’t any higher than normal. Which means there should be something above it. An attic. Or, at the very least, a crawlspace.

Brilliant. And how will that get you out of the building? Do you expect a literal escape hatch up there, like on a holiday caravan?

No, but it is, perhaps, a weak point. At the very least, a
spot where they can hole up indefinitely, because, as Riley said, there is only so long the police will wait before infiltrating. Grab bottled water and more granola bars, find the attic, and retreat there with their stash and their gun and wait it out.

Mmm, forgetting something, Max?

His meds. What if he gets everyone safely up there, and then his meds wear off and they’re no longer safe, because the person who put them up there is as dangerous as the ones they escaped?

Irony: a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often amusing as a result
.

Perhaps “amusing” is not the proper word here.

Aaron jabs a finger at a door ahead. Max catches a distant sound, one he can’t quite make out, but he stops dead and turns.

“Max!” Aaron whispers.

“Did you hear …?” He trails off, listening. The sound comes again. He turns sharply, but Aaron grabs his arm.

“Didn’t you hear that?” Max says. “It sounded like one of the girls.”

Aaron stops and listens, but Max can tell by his expression that he hears nothing. Neither does Max now. He catches slow and methodical boot thuds, coming from the other direction. Which means Gray and Predator are not near the girls or running toward them.

“They’re fine,” Aaron whispers. “Riley has it under control. Brienne might be conflicted, but she’s not stupid. The faster we get that gun, the faster we get back to them and end this.”

Max nods. They hurry into the room. Aaron looks around, as if forgetting where he left the gun. Max sees the barrel sticking from behind a box. He scoops up the gun. It’s
a Beretta … and that’s about all he knows. Firearms never interested him, and his father hadn’t pressed him to learn to shoot.

Which is a good thing, isn’t it? All things considered
.

Max has been around guns, though. Hard to avoid it as the son of a career soldier. While he grew up with his mother, there’d been holidays on base with his father. He’d seen guns. Seen them fired. Seen them cleaned too, the men sitting around talking and drinking a pint while they made sure their weapons would never do what this one apparently had.

As soon as Max picks up the gun, he can see the problem. The spent cartridge is jammed, sticking out of the gun.

“Shit. Why didn’t I notice that?” Aaron says and takes the gun from him.

“Careful,”
Max says. “It may be jammed, but it’s still a loaded weapon.”

Aaron rolls his eyes. He starts cycling the gun to remove the cartridge.

“Riley can do that,” Max says. “We need to get back to—”

“If it’s an easy fix, we should get it working before we go.”

Max shakes his head. Arguing with Aaron isn’t going to make this go any faster. When the cartridge ejects, Max says, “There, now can we—”

“Just let me make sure it’s clear.”

Max is about to argue when Aaron starts removing the magazine, which is the smart thing to do, so he leaves him to it, moves toward the door and cracks it open.

You didn’t hear Riley, Max. It was voices in your head. It’s called schizophrenia
.

I don’t hear voices in my head.

Then what am I?

Sod off
. He squeezes his eyes shut, and the voice goes silent. Which proves, he supposes, that it is indeed under his
control. Not that he’d ever doubted it. What he doubts, as his doctor would say, is himself.

But I have to, don’t I? That’s the key to staying one step ahead of the monster. Question everything.

Which was bloody exhausting. Like a hamster on a wheel, endlessly running, never going anywhere. He couldn’t keep on like this. He just couldn’t.

What’s the alternative, Max?

He doesn’t answer. He knows the alternative, and the worse things get, the brighter it shines.

“We really need to—” He turns back to Aaron and sees him holding up the gun as he peers down the barrel. “Bloody hell,” he says, and stomps toward him. “Are you mad? Give me—”

“The magazine is out, Maximus. It’s not loaded. You Brits, you’re all so scared of guns. It’s a wonder you even have a military.”

“We’ve had one longer than you,” Max says. “And any time you’d like to compare national crime rates, I’m happy to oblige. Now put the gun away and—”

The gun fires. Max never sees how—whether Aaron’s hand brushes the trigger or he turns the gun and hits it. Max doesn’t even hear the gun fire, not with his thoughts half distracted, swallowing the
pfft
.

What he sees is blood. A spray of it. An impossible spray, seeming to shoot everywhere. He’s hallucinating. He must be, because what he’s seeing isn’t possible. Aaron—the stupid blighter—was just holding the gun. Holding it and looking at it, and now …

And now Max is standing there, with blood dripping off his hands outstretched for the gun, the words “Just give me that” still on his lips, and Aaron … Aaron is gone. Vanished in an explosion of blood. Which is not possible. Not possible at all, and Max stumbles back, his hands
going up, the voice in his head screaming
no, no, no
, that whatever he thinks he saw, he’s imagining it because people do not explode in a spray of blood,
and you know that, Max, you know that, so just hold on, be logical and be smart. People do not explode. Just like they are not possessed by demons. Remember that and hold on. This time, you have to hold …

That’s when he sees that Aaron did not explode in a spray of blood. He’s on the floor. With a hole through his throat, blood pumping from that hole.

Max lurches toward Aaron. His foot slides in the blood. There’s so much of it. On the floor. On the walls.

Arterial spray.

Who cares what it’s called, Max?

Arterial spray. Meaning the bullet hit an artery. He’s bleeding out. That matters. That
matters
.

There’s a hole through his throat, and Max knows that even if he can’t see it because all he sees is blood, pumping, pumping, and there’s so much—

Max is on his knees, reaching for Aaron’s throat, to wrap his hands around it, because that’s all he can think to do, but then he stops.

Are you sure this is real, Max? Really, truly sure, because the last time …

Max squeezes his eyes shut. Yes, the last time. Can’t forget that. Can’t ever forget that. But this is real. This is real, and there’s a hole in Aaron’s throat, and the only way he can save him is to wrap his hands around his neck …

Just like Justin
.

Yes, damn you. Just like Justin, and if Max is wrong, he’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and he sure as hell cannot sit here and reason it through, can he?

He puts his hand to the hole in Aaron’s throat—or where the hole must be, where the blood gushes—and when
he does, he can feel the blood pumping against his hand. Then he sees it pouring from the other side.