P Deutermann - The Moonpool

“And you know this how?”

“I believe the whole Iraq war was based on a lie,” she declared. “I’m always on the side of the freedom fighters. In the case of Iraq, that ain’t us.”

“You say shit like that in public a lot?” I asked.

“All the time,” she said. “I’m one of those people who believe we brought 9/11 on ourselves, and that they hit precisely the right people when they did it.”

I had to take a deep breath. The air in the bathroom was getting warm, and I was suddenly not so sure I wanted this left-wing nutcase along. I thought about cold-cocking her and taking the damned card. But she knew the building and I did not. Plus, she wasn’t trying to con me: That’s how she felt, and there it was.

“We make it out of here,” I said, “you’re on your own. If my people are out there in the woods, we’ll get away from here. But after that…”

“My sentiments exactly,” she said, her eyes defiant.

“Okay,” I said. “Swipe that sucker.”

She did, and we both heard the door lock click. She opened it and we stepped out into the hallway. We closed the door and stopped to listen, but the only thing we heard was the click as the bathroom door card reader LED reset itself to red.

Our rooms were on one corner of the building. The elevator and the fire stairs were at the other end. On the outside wall were the room doors. On the inside wall were some cleaning-gear closets and one marked as a linen closet. There were red dry-chemical fire extinguishers mounted on the wall every fifty feet. The floor was more of the polished linoleum that decorated the rooms. Half the overhead fluorescent lights were off. My government saving electricity.

We hurried down toward the other end of the hallway. I didn’t see any surveillance domes in the ceiling or along the walls, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone watching. On the other hand, it was an old building, with concrete interior walls and ceilings, so back-fitting built-in cameras and wiring would have been difficult. When we got to the fire stairs, though, we discovered that Moira had been wrong about card readers. There was one, and its LED glowed bright red.

“Oops,” she said.

I felt a pit in my stomach. Trust a liberal to fuck it up. Then we heard the elevator machinery start up, and saw the green numbers over the elevator doors begin to light up in sequence as the elderly machine ground its way toward our floor, probably filled with a Marine reaction force.

To our right was another hallway, identical to ours. Rooms on the outside, closets and storage on the inside wall. The building was probably a hollow square, with an air shaft in the middle. There was a set of fire stairs down at the far end, but even from where we stood, we could see another little red light laughing at us. That pit in my stomach was growing. I looked at Moira, whose face was tight with fear. The green light marked 2 went off, and the green light marked 3 lit up.

Then I remembered what I’d done to Billy the Kid. There was a fire extinguisher mounted right next to the elevator door. I grabbed it and told Moira to grab another one and get back here. She understood immediately and ran to our right, so that she’d be out of the sight line when the elevator doors opened. The green light on 3 went out, and the light for 4 came on. Here they came. Thank you, Moira: wrong about damned near everything. Or part of the detention program.

She was back, and I showed her how to remove the seal without firing it. I positioned her on one side of the door, and myself on the other.

“That door opens, step in front of them and pull the trigger. It shoots low, so aim just above their heads. We want to blind them, pull them out, get in the ’vator, push B for basement, and then hit the door-close button.”

Assuming it went to the basement, I thought. And that it didn’t require a card reader to operate. My pit was becoming a bowling ball.

I readied my extinguisher and hoped like hell it was charged. The green light for 4 emitted a tiny ping. If the reaction force was properly constituted, there’d be no guns. Prisons had learned a long time ago never to arm the guards if they were going into the population. The elevator thumped to a stop behind the sliding doors. The doors opened in a blaze of yellow light. I nodded to Moira, and we stepped out.

We faced two very startled Marines. Fortunately, they were neither armed nor dressed out in any particular kind of SWAT gear. They wore the usual cammies and black gloves, and each carried a police baton under one armpit like a swagger stick and what looked like a black mace canister in his hand.

I fired first, but Moira was right there with me. In an instant the Marines’ faces were covered in white powder and they had dropped the sticks and canisters in an attempt to protect their faces. I stopped shooting for a second, and they instinctively went into defensive crouches, and then I resumed, coating their hands and spraying more white stuff in their faces. Moira’s extinguisher piled on with equal fervor. Then I dropped mine and grabbed the first Marine by his right sleeve and flung him out of the elevator, where Moira turned and continued to spray stuff into his face. The second guy tried to resist, so I kicked him hard in the shin and then flung him on top of the other guy.

“In,” I said to Moira, and in she jumped as I hit door-close and then B for basement. The doors shut with agonizing slowness, but Moira had kept her extinguisher and continued to shoot it fiercely at the two white figures on the floor until the doors closed. I let out a big sigh of relief when the elevator began to head down.

Now it would be a matter of how fast the two disabled guards could make contact with their control center and get someone to intercept the elevator before we got to the basement. I hadn’t seen any shoulder mikes or radios, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a security phone they could get to. Once they could see.

Moira bent down and collected the Mace cans and the batons. We were leaving 4 and headed for 3. “These might be useful,” she said.

“Forget the batons, but we’ll keep the Mace cans,” I said, and I showed her how to fire the Mace. We passed 3 and headed for 2.

“Why not the sticks?” she asked.

“You ever fought a man with a stick?” I asked. “There’s an art to it.”

We passed 2 and headed on down to 1. That’s where we’d find out if we were going to make it to the basement or have to fight our way out the front door, which, of course, wasn’t ever going to happen.

As we came up on the first floor, I heard voices shouting in the hallway outside, but the elevator, bless it, kept going. A few moments later, the door dinged and opened into the basement vestibule. I had my Mace can ready and pointed at the doors in case there was a welcoming committee, but the vestibule was empty. I jammed Moira’s fire extinguisher in the elevator door to disable it. The fire stairs did make it down to the basement, and I tipped a fifty-five-gallon drum of floor wax under the handle just to slow things down a little. Now we had to find those loading docks.

The basement layout matched the floors above in the hollow square configuration, except all the interior walls were steel mesh interspersed with concrete structural columns. The lights down here were single bulbs in metal frames, and instead of rooms there were storage cages, holding tools, boxes of old files, and supplies. The ceiling was crisscrossed with pipes and electrical cables, and the whole area smelled of old pipe lagging, dust, and heating oil.

“Which way?” I asked.

“Down this way,” she said, pointing straight ahead, and then indicating we’d need to go left to the other corner. “That’s where the loading docks should terminate.”