breath.
When he got back to the coal chute, he repeated the maneuver, using a branch to work open the cast iron door. The process was more difficult this time, mostly because the chute’s door was so much heavier, but Hazard managed it after a few fumbles. No gunshot. He counted sixty seconds, but no secondary explosion followed. Planting the butt of the branch in the soft earth, Hazard wedged it in place with a rock to keep the coal chute open. Then he moved around to look into the darkness.
A plastic banner—thin and translucent, the cheap kind you might pick up for a child’s party—hung just inside the coal chute. Printed on it in rainbow colors was the word CONGRATULATIONS!
With an irritated grunt, Hazard tossed in a pair of portable lights, the plastic cases clicking when they hit concrete. He studied the opening, adding his flashlight to the illumination, sweeping the beam back and forth to check for tripwires or pressure sensors or motion detectors. He couldn’t see anything, and he decided he had just learned rule one of the game: stupid choices get punished. Lowering himself onto his belly, he slid into the Empire Fruit building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JULY 6
SATURDAY
4:58 AM
THE SOUND OF STEPS dragged Somers out of the half doze. His hand closed on the Glock, and he squirmed upright, bracing himself against the wall. Nico mumbled something and tried to burrow deeper under Somers’s arm.
As the steps came closer, their quality made Somers’s heartbeat rise. These weren’t custodians finishing up an overnight shift. The steps were quiet; whoever was making his way down the hall was obviously trying not to be detected, and the steps were coming closer and closer to the sub-basement.
Somers jogged Nico’s shoulder, and the younger man looked up blearily.
“Wha—”
Somers shushed him and pointed at the limestone chamber at the bottom of the stairs. Staring at Somers, Nico blinked a few times. Somers touched his ear, pointed to the hall, and then pointed to the sub-basement again. Nico’s expression changed to panic, and he scrambled down the steps. When he got to the sub-basement proper, he hesitated, still looking at Somers. Somers waved him off, and after a moment, Nico darted out of sight. Somers adjusted his position, kneeling low on the stairs, his body on the side of the stairwell where the door hung in the frame—that way, when the door opened, Somers would have an extra few seconds of cover, possibly giving him the advantage he needed.
When someone yanked on the door, it rattled in the frame, and Somers’s pulse jumped up a few hundred beats. He was sweating in spite of the cold. He wrapped and rewrapped his left hand around the butt of the Glock. The textured grip felt too slick under his touch. Someone yanked on the door again, and Somers felt a brief, hysterical giggle bubble up in his throat. He clamped down on it, but not before he had a crazy grin at the idea of the Keeper losing the keys to his own dungeon.
A rapid exchange of whispers came from the other side of the door, and Somers upped his count to at least two. Two people out in that hallway. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised—Hazard had raised the possibility that the Keeper had an accomplice—but he still felt a sickening wave of disappointment. With one, Somers might have gotten lucky. With two—well, a lot could go wrong with two.
Then, over the hammering of his heart, Somers heard, “Then get a fucking drill, dude.”
The Glock’s barrel dipped for a moment as Somers’s muscles slackened.
“Gray?” he asked.
“Oh my God, bro.” A fist pounded on the door. “John-Henry, are you in there? Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
Somers had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep that hysterical laughter from escaping. His first thought was of Hazard answering the question, with its obvious answer, and then the surge of relief was so strong that his eyes stung and he slumped against the wall.
“Yeah. Yeah, I can hear you. We’re ok.”
“Who is it?” Nico whispered from the bottom of the stairs.
“Gray,” Somers said. “And—I don’t know. Gray, who else is with you?”
“Uh, Sheriff Engels and Foley. Oh, and I brought that twat Yarmark—Foley made me. Hazard told us to bring the cavalry, but people are moving slow. Hold on; Foley’s getting a drill.”
Heat bloomed in Somers’s chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“What if he’s—” Nico began.
“He’s not.” Somers could have said he knew, in