Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,45

Rook dragged her away. Bishop jumped in a moment later and closed the tunnel entrance over him.

Darkness consumed the tunnel.

There was no time to turn on a flashlight. They simply charged into the darkness, waiting for the mortars to strike. Unlike shells fired by howitzers or field guns, mortars sailed through the air without a hiss or whistle. They were deadly silent until the first boom rang out.

Boom.

The ceiling of the tunnel shook. A cascade of dust poured from freshly formed cracks.

Boom.

Bishop and Rook, both large men, bruised and battered their bodies as they surged through the tunnel, smashing their heads, knees, and elbows into the surrounding stone surfaces.

Boom.

The third mortar struck. Rumbling echoed through the tunnel as the mountainside above gave way and rolled down the slope, covering the wall they’d so futilely defended. Then the hatch gave in to the sudden weight. It split and allowed the mountain to reclaim the space as its own.

A plume of dust rocketed down the tunnel, enveloping Rook, Bishop, and Somi. They stopped moving and covered their mouths, coughing and wheezing as the air fouled. Rook, who had been shuffling backward and dragging Somi with one arm, pulled her lithe frame up close to his body. He wrapped his sleeve around her nose and mouth, though he wasn’t sure how much good it would do.

In fact, until the dust settled, they were as good as trapped. They couldn’t breathe and Rook was sure they couldn’t see a lick, even if he’d turned on his flashlight. He did the only thing he could think of: call the others. After activating his throat microphone, he spoke through wheezes. “King . . . Queen. This is—Rook. Do you copy?”

Nothing. No response. He didn’t bother trying again. If they didn’t respond it meant they were indisposed, the signal was being blocked, or they were dead. “Knight. Tell me . . . you’re there, little man.”

The signal came through fuzzy, but it was there. “Sorry, big guy,” came Knight’s voice. Rook could tell he was out of breath. A loud hooting sound filled Rook’s ears, making Knight’s voice hard to make out. But he was there. “Can’t talk right now. Running for my life.”

“You and me both,” Rook said. He knew not to try talking further. If Knight said he was running for his life, then he was. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

The signal cut out. Knight was gone. Rook hacked as he breathed in a mouthful of dust. His head spun. Bright spots of color danced in the dark tunnel, lulling him to sleep. He fought the urge, knowing that he was close to passing out. Then he stopped fighting and gave in as his lungs filled with more dust than oxygen.

NINETEEN

Washington, D.C.

TOM DUNCAN SAT in silence, looking at the Rose Garden on the other side of the window. He leaned his head back against his leather executive chair and immediately felt annoyed at how well the headrest’s contour fit his head. He’d been sitting too much over the past three years. It was the hardest thing about being president. Sit-down meetings, dinners, and debates. Life on the campaign trail had been all action, moving from one place to the next, exciting, energetic. And while being the president of the United States was hardly boring, Duncan craved mobility.

Instead, he sat in the Oval Office, waiting for Domenick Boucher, the CIA director, to bring news on the Chess Team’s mission. He regretted that Deep Blue was not able to be part of the mission, but the team’s handler wouldn’t have been much help on this mission. With the thick jungle canopy blocking visual and infrared satellite images, the team was as good as invisible. And since Deep Blue had been otherwise occupied, he’d put the team in Boucher’s hands.

A knock on the door pulled his attention away from the roses and the Chess Team. He turned as the door opened. Boucher entered, a grimace pulled down below his white mustache. Something had gone wrong.

Boucher sat on one of the couches positioned in the center of the Oval Office. It faced another couch on the other side of the presidential seal that had been hand sewn into a deep olive green carpet of Duncan’s choosing. He wasn’t big on decorating, but it was something he had to do when he took office. Not every president did so, but the previous president had an eye for Texas tan and cowboys that made his skin crawl. The decorator he brought in had