Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

The area at the bottom of the shaft was twice the width as at the top. There was another hatch set into the floor to the right, presumably leading to a lower level. And a grey metal door in the wall ahead of him. He opened it a crack and used his mirror to look through. It led to a corridor. There were more grey surfaces. Lots of precise right angles. But no people. Reacher opened the door the rest of the way and stepped through.

Fisher was struggling to focus. Her head felt like it was filled with sand. She was suddenly cold. Wet. Conscious of being upright, but not exactly standing. Her arms were above her head. She tried to bring them down. Couldn’t. Realized she was hanging from them. Her shoulders started to protest. There was pain in her wrists. Something was biting into them. Something metal. And her feet were bare. Only her toes were on the floor. The surface felt rough beneath them.

She shook her head and a guy swam into her view. He was old. He had white hair. Masses of it, all curly and wild. He put something down. A bucket. He reached to his side. To a metal table. There were things lined up on it. Tools. With blades. And jaws. He picked one up. Like scissors, only larger. Maybe sharper. He held it up in his right hand, in front of her face, and pulled the hem of her shirt towards him with his left.

‘Now then, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you out of these damp clothes.’

Reacher could see another door straight ahead at the far end of the corridor. Three doors on the left. And two on the right. He opened the first door on the left. It led to a bedroom. It was small. Utilitarian. There was a metal cupboard against one wall. And a metal-framed cot. No other furniture. No home comforts of any kind. The first door on the right opened on to a bathroom. It was communal, with urinals and stalls and sinks. Stainless steel and plain white porcelain. White tile on the floor. The second door on the left led to another bedroom. It was identical to the first. A metal cupboard. A metal cot. No other furniture. The second door on the right was for a dormitory. There were three double bunk beds. They had metal frames and thin striped mattresses, and a row of cheap wooden footlockers was lined up next to them. The last door on the left opened on to the kitchen. There were refrigerators and freezers. Cabinets and countertops. Tables and chairs. Two sinks. And a painting on the wall of a window with billowing drapes and a view of trees and flowers and grass. The final door led to a square room. It was as big as all the others combined. There was a dining area to the right, with a pale wooden table and eight chairs. A sitting area to the left with two couches and two armchairs. Bookcases lined the walls. Some full. Some empty. Some holding stacks of board games. Some with stacks of magazines. But there were no people. And no sign of Fisher. Which is what Reacher had been afraid of. It meant he would have to go down to the lower level.

Fisher’s mental fog was starting to lift. Her head still ached but she was able to make better sense of her surroundings. She only had on underwear, she realized. She was starting to shiver. Her arms were above her head because her wrists were manacled and attached to a chain which ran through a metal ring in the centre of the ceiling. The room she was in was about ten feet by fifteen. There was one door, which was ajar. The walls were made of cinderblock, which had been painted. Originally white but now yellowing, except for lots of patches that were covered with brownish splatters and stains. The floor was concrete. There were the stubs of thick bolts sticking up from apparently random spots. Fisher guessed that some kind of heavy machinery had once been anchored there.

Aside from her there were five people in the room. The old guy with the white hair, holding the pair of shears he’d used to cut off her clothes. The three remaining members of her crew. And a woman she didn’t recognize. She was exceptionally thin, wearing a black dress with a white apron like some kind of uniform, and her blonde hair was knotted on top of her head.

Fisher’s shredded clothes were on the floor at her feet. There was a bucket, which she guessed the guy had used to bring the water he’d thrown on her. And now she saw the metal table had two levels. Her eyes were drawn to a device on the lower shelf. It was made of polished wood with an angled front and a dial, like an old-fashioned radio. A cable snaked from its back to an outlet on the wall. And it had two other wires. They were coiled up. One ended with a wad of some kind of fuzzy metal. The other had an insulated handle with two sharp brass spikes sticking out of its far end.

‘I see you’re admiring my device,’ the old guy said. ‘It’s vintage. From Moscow. It belonged to my mother. She was an expert operator, by all accounts. Maybe we’ll use it today. These guys have probably never seen anything like it in action. High voltage, low current. That’s the secret. So it can cause more pain. For longer. The steel wool goes up inside … well, you can probably guess. And the probe goes wherever I like.’

Reacher went back through the door leading to the foyer. He raised the hatch in the floor and used his mirror to look inside. The shaft went down another twenty feet. Reacher didn’t like that. He was too far below ground already. The skin on the back of his neck started to prickle. There was a reason his ancestors told tales of trolls lurking beneath bridges, and dragons living in caves. Those places were dark. Cramped. Unnatural. People shouldn’t go in them.

There were five rooms on the lower level. Two on the left. Two on the right. And one at the end of the corridor. There were signs on the doors. Air Purification and HVAC on the left. Switchboard and Generator on the right. And Water Purification on its own. Reacher didn’t need to search these rooms one by one. The doors to four of them were closed. Only one was open. The generator room. Just a crack. But enough for Reacher to hear a voice. Someone he recognized.

Klostermann was sliding his shears up between Fisher’s breasts. He caught the thin strip of her bra between the blades. Centred them on the little decorative bow. And started to squeeze the handles.

‘This is mainly for my amusement, as I already know all about you, Natasha. Or should I call you Margaret?’ he said. ‘But I do have one question. The drifter. How do I find him?’

‘Just turn around,’ Reacher said from the doorway.

Five people turned. Two backed away towards the far wall. Klostermann and his housekeeper. Three drew their weapons. The Russian agents. They were to Reacher’s right, about halfway into the room. In a straight line. Shoulders almost touching. The men on the outside. The woman sandwiched between them. Reacher stepped towards them. They raised their guns. Reacher raised his hands. Slowly, until they were at face height, palms out, fingers spread.

‘Here’s how I see things,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re all professionals. Here to do a job. Nothing personal. So if you put your guns down, lie on the floor, and put your hands behind your heads, I won’t kill you. I’ll hand you over to the authorities. They’ll ask you a bunch of dumb questions. Give you crappy food for a few months. And then trade you for the next Americans who get caught in your country. You’ll likely be home by the end of the year. What do you say?’

None of the Russians responded.

‘This is a limited time offer,’ Reacher said. ‘It expires in three seconds. Ready? Three. Two …’

Reacher shot both hands forward, his fingers closing into fists as they moved, and punched both the men in their throats. They dropped their guns and fell down backwards, clutching their necks and desperately trying to suck air in through their crushed larynxes. Then he drove his right knee up into the woman’s abdomen. She folded forward, gasping, and he smashed his right elbow down into her neck where her spine joined her skull. She collapsed like a switch had been thrown and landed at Reacher’s feet.