Yarmark pushed his way forward. He looked twelve years old, and he had his hands clenched at his sides, but he met Somers’s gaze. “I’ll go.”
Somers counted to ten, waiting, but Moraes didn’t speak.
“Come on,” Somers said.
He went first, lowering himself through the door of the coal chute. Hazard’s lights made it easy to gauge the drop—just three feet—and he let himself fall. Dulac came next, and he staggered when he landed; Somers had to catch him. Yarmark landed lightly.
“Then puke,” Somers said quietly. “But keep your head in the game.”
The basement of the Empire Fruit building had a low ceiling; all three men had to stoop. An ancient furnace stood to the right; to the left stood a rusted-out boiler as big as a sedan. Somers clicked on his flashlight, playing it back and forth, and spotted the first tripwire. He pointed to it.
“You two stay behind me,” Somers said. “And step exactly where I step.”
Dulac nodded, but he was clutching Somers’s shoulder, trying to stay upright.
“Gray—”
“I can do this. I need to do this.” He pulled himself upright and released Somers.
Yarmark bent at the knees and puked.
It was perhaps the worst set of reinforcements in history; it was going to have to do.
Somers started forward.
They moved through the basement first, stepping over tripwires, skirting debris—wet newspaper, an overturned filing cabinet, a tree branch that still had leaves on it. Then they came to ancient wooden crates that were stacked close together, forming a maze of narrow passages. Somers almost missed a wire at chest height. He spotted it at the last moment, jerked to a stop, and felt Dulac stumble into him. He stared into the muzzle of a shotgun as he struggled to keep from falling forward. Then Yarmark yanked Dulac backward, and Somers let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
“Wire,” he whispered,” and he ducked under it and kept going.
Sweat poured down his ribs and his back; he could smell it, a flop sweat of fear and adrenaline. The only sound was their harsh breathing, the scrape of their soles on the cement, and the creaks and protests of the old building. The shadows played tricks. Once, Somers was sure he had seen a man move in the darkness, and he drew the Glock and aimed. But nothing moved again.
At the stairs, Somers swore.
“The boards have been weakened,” Somers said, pointing to a hairline fracture on the lowest tread. “Keep your feet close to the wall.”
“This guy is some kind of fucking asshole,” Dulac grumbled. His face was gray, and dark hollows ringed his eyes. He was slumped against the wall. When he noticed Somers’s gaze, he straightened.
Somers started up the stairs. He was so busy watching his footing that he almost broke the tripwire laid halfway up. He froze, held out a hand behind him, and stepped carefully over. Then he adjusted his weight and took the next step.
“No,” Dulac shouted, “wait!”
Somers felt the second tripwire pull tight against his shin.
Hands grabbed him.
A gun fired.
He fell.
He connected with Dulac, and through the ringing in his ears, he heard Dulac scream. Then they fell together, the three of them, and came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Somers scrambled upright, patting himself, checking for a gunshot wound. Nothing. That was a miracle; Dulac had managed to drag him clear of the shotgun blast. Dulac—
Dulac was on the ground, blood staining his shirt and pooling under him.
“He stepped into the first tripwire,” Yarmark was shouting. “He didn’t even think, he just rushed up and grabbed you.”
Squatting, Somers found the wound: a spear trap had caught Dulac in the arm, punching through his shirt and flesh. To judge by the amount of blood, Somers guessed it had nicked an artery.
Dulac was breathing through gritted teeth, his eyes wide and rolling up into his head.
“His arm—” Somers was saying.
But Yarmark was already stripping off his shirt.
“Find me a stick,” Yarmark said. “Anything.”
Somers grabbed a broken slat from one of the ancient crates and passed it to Yarmark.
“The artery,” Somers said.
“I know,” Yarmark said. He wrapped the shirt around Dulac’s arm, thrust the slat through it, and began tightening the tourniquet.
Dulac screamed.
“That’s right,” Yarmark said, the scrawny kid leaning into the slat, forcing the tourniquet tighter. “Tell me you’re alive.”
Dulac screamed again, and then his eyes got wide and he ran out of air.