“Some, not all. We can’t count on that.” Lynch disappeared into the sewer.
Kendra was two seconds behind. She climbed down the iron rungs, which were slimy and cool to the touch. A moment later the awful smell overcame her.
She fought an immediate gag reflex. She’d seen sewer workers wearing goggles and filter masks, and now she knew why. Her nose burned and eyes watered. She had a taste in her mouth that matched the awful stench.
“You okay?” Lynch called up to her.
“No, but I’ll live.”
“Just a warning. When you step off the rungs, you’ll be ankle-deep in sludge.”
“Great. This keeps getting better.”
Lynch helped her make her final step onto the sewer floor. Her feet landed with a sickening squish. She took one step, then another, each time pulling suction on the foul-smelling ooze.
“Which way?” Lynch asked.
“Listen.”
Kendra turned her head until she heard the faint sound of footsteps in the sludge.
Lynch heard it, too. It was coming from the east. In the distance, they saw the faint glow of a cell phone.
“He’s using GPS to map his position,” Lynch whispered.
“I recognize the sound of that limp,” Kendra said. “I think I helped give him that.”
“Well done.”
They navigated the dark sewer, working their way through each length. The odors changed every few feet, depending on the character of the streets above. Sometimes sickly sweet, sometimes sour, all of it almost unbearable.
The phone light ahead abruptly extinguished itself.
The footsteps stopped.
“He knows we’re on his tail,” Kendra said.
BLAM!
A gunshot rang out. A bullet ricocheted in the sewer’s darkness.
Kendra dove for the wall and her shoulder slammed against it.
Pain. Stabbing, excruciating pain.
BLAM! Another gunshot. This time the ricocheting bullet seemed to hit closer to Lynch.
“Hug the outer wall,” Lynch whispered. “Put away your phone.”
“Not a problem. It’s already in the bottom of that muck.” She paused to listen. “He’s on the move again.”
“Then let’s go get him.”
They quickened their pace as they reached somewhat firmer ground. The muck gave way to a thinner covering that was slicker, but at least they could move faster.
A metallic scraping sound echoed in the sewer.
They froze. The scraping sound continued, and a shaft of light suddenly appeared ahead.
Kendra turned to Lynch. “He’s going back up to the street.”
They ran toward the light, but before they could reach it, another metallic sound filled her ears.
It was dark once more.
“He’s gone,” Kendra said. “And he put the cover back.”
Lynch pulled out his phone and dropped a pin in their GPS location. “I’ll send the map to Metcalf, but it’ll take them a few minutes to get here.”
Kendra ran for the iron rungs that would take them back up to the street. “He could be gone by then. We almost lost him before. We can’t wait.”
“Agreed. Let me take the lead.”
She scowled impatiently. “Because you’re a man?”
He pulled out his Beretta semiautomatic. “Would I dare say that? Because I have a gun. And because I’m incredibly well trained for situations like this. Can you say the same?”
“No, you’re right. After you.”
Lynch swiftly climbed the rungs, managing to maintain a grip on his gun as he worked his way up to the street. He pushed up on the manhole cover and slid it off to one side. He popped his head up and looked in every direction.
“See him?” Kendra said from below him.
Lynch climbed up to the street. “Afraid not.”
Kendra gripped the rungs and pulled herself up. Her fingers throbbed in pain, and only then did she realize that one of the cuts on her left hand had reopened. A little blood was soaking through the bandage.
It was probably nothing. Work through the pain. She could take care of the wound later.
She scrambled the rest of the way up the rungs and joined Lynch on the street above. They were on Nineteenth Street in front of a row of empty storefronts.
“Shit,” Lynch said. “We lost him.”
Kendra stiffened in panic. Then she smiled. “No way. He was trudging through the same muck we were. Look at the sidewalk.” She pointed to a set of footprints leading down the street. “Though I guess he could have erected a big neon sign reading, ‘Killer this way.’”
“Too subtle.”
Then they set off down the street at a run, following the trail of green-brown ooze for a block and a half to Pacific Arms, a dilapidated six-story downtown hotel that had been partially converted to low-cost government-assisted housing. A muddy pair of sneakers sat outside the front door.
“Considerate,” Lynch said. “And maybe not as subtle as I thought.”