Douglas Preston - Riptide

It was the second shot that would be deadly.

The first shot came almost in answer to his thought, echoing deafeningly within the narrow confines of the tunnel. As Hatch threw himself sideways into the mud, the second shot ripped into the cribbing directly behind him.

In the muzzle flash, he saw that the tunnel continued downward uninterrupted.

Pushing himself to his feet, he ran ahead blindly, arms outstretched, half stumbling, half sliding, as far as he dared and then farther. At last he stopped, felt for the wall again, and listened. Streeter would still be behind him, proceeding more cautiously. If Hatch could lose him somehow in the tunnel, maybe he could reach the point, deep beneath the ground, where the Boston Shaft intersected the Water Pit. Neidelman would be there. He couldn't possibly know what Streeter was up to; Streeter must have suffered a psychotic break, nothing else made sense. If he could just reach the main shaft. . .

Another shot came, much closer than he'd expected. He swung desperately away, the second barely missing him. Ahead, he saw that the tunnel branched, a narrow passage to his left ending in what appeared to be a gaping hole. There was a third shot, then a fourth, and something ripped through his ear with a tearing sting.

He'd been hit. Running now, he grabbed wildly at his face, feeling for the blood that trickled from his torn ear. He ducked down the narrow branch and went as far toward the hole as he dared. Then he flattened himself against the wall and waited in the close blackness, muscles tensed. At the next muzzle flash, he'd spring back, grab Streeter, and toss him down. It was even possible that Streeter, in his haste, might run right into the hole himself.

In the intense, listening dark he heard a faint pattering, barely louder than the pounding of his own heart. It was Streeter, feeling his way along the wall. Hatch waited. Now he could hear the faint rasp of breath. Streeter was being careful with his rounds. No doubt he had a limited supply. Perhaps he would be forced to...

Suddenly, there was the flash and roar of a shot. Hatch lunged, trying desperately to beat the second shot, and as he closed on Streeter there was an immense blow to his head. A stunning light filled his eyes, blotting out thought, blotting out everything.

Chapter 50

Keeping as much as possible to the shelter of the rocks, Bonterre hiked inland from Base Camp to the narrow marked trail that mounted the rise of the island. She began ascending stealthily, pausing every few moments to listen. Away from the lights of the camp it was dark, so dark that at times she had to feel for the lines of yellow tape, broken and fluttering wildly in the gale. The muddy trail rose, then dipped again, following the contour of the island. She was soaked to the skin, rain running in thin rivulets from her chin, elbows, and hands.

The path climbed once again and she topped a rise. The skeletal structure of Orthanc lay several hundred yards ahead, a trio of lights winking atop its superstructure, the windows brilliant squares of light etched against the night. The ATV was there, its bulbous tires slick with rain. Two large, empty metal containers were in tow. Below the tower, the mouth of the Pit was dark. But a ghostly light shimmered up from below, as if from a great depth. She could hear the clank of machinery, the rumble of the air pumps, even over the howl of the storm.

Through the glass windows of Orthanc, she could make out a dark shape moving slowly.

She crept forward, keeping low, using the tall grass as cover. A hundred feet out she stopped again, hiding behind a clump of tea roses. Here the view was much better. The figure had its back to her, and she waited. As it moved into the light she saw the broad shoulders and long, dirty-blond hair of Rankin, the geologist. He appeared to be alone.

She hesitated, sheltering the Radmeter from the rain as best she could. It was possible that Rankin might know how to use it, or at least have a better idea. But that would mean taking him into her confidence.

Streeter had deliberately tried to kill them. Why? True, he'd hated Hatch from the beginning. But Bonterre couldn't believe that was enough provocation. Streeter didn't seem the type to act rashly.

Then again, Hatch was trying to shut down the dig.

Were others in on it?

Somehow, she could not imagine the open, hearty Rankin being party to first-degree murder. As for Neidelman . . . she couldn't allow her thoughts to turn that way.

There was a searing bolt of lightning overhead, and she shrank away from the thunderclap that followed. From the direction of Base Camp, there was a sharp crackle as the last generator failed. The lights atop Orthanc blinked out for a moment, and then the control tower was bathed in an orange glow as the emergency batteries came on.

Bonterre clutched the Radmeter closer. She could wait no longer. Right or wrong, she had to make a choice.

Chapter 51

A faceful of mud brought Hatch back to the black reality of the tunnel. His head throbbed from Streeter's blow, and something was pressing relentlessly on his back. The cold steel of what Hatch knew must be a gun barrel was digging into his torn ear. He hadn't been shot, he realized groggily; he'd been knocked on the head.

"Listen up, Hatch," came Streeter's whisper. "We had a nice little chase, but the games over now." The barrel ground into his ear. "And you're it. Understand?"

Hatch tried to nod as Streeter jerked his head back cruelly by the hair. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," Hatch croaked, choking mud.

"Don't twitch, don't jerk, don't even sneeze unless I tell you to, or I'll turn your brains into a pink mist."

"Yes," Hatch said again, trying to muster some energy. He felt stupid, cold, barely alive.

"Now we're going to get up, nice and smooth. Slip in the mud and you're dead."

The pressure on his back was released. Hatch rose to his knees, then his feet, slowly, carefully, fighting to quell the pounding in his head.

"Here's what we're going to do," came Streeter's voice. "We'll return to where the tunnel forked. Then we're going to head straight down the Boston Shaft. So start walking. Slow."

Hatch put one foot in front of the other as carefully as he could, trying not to stumble in the darkness. They reached the fork, then continued down the main shaft, following the wall.

It seemed to Hatch that he should be able to escape. It was pitch black, and all he had to do was break free somehow. But the combination of the gun barrel grinding into his hurt ear and the thickness in his mind made clear thinking impossible. He wondered, momentarily, why Streeter hadn't simply killed him.

As they moved forward cautiously, he began to wonder just how well Streeter knew the Boston Shaft. There were few horizontal tunnels on the island, and almost all of them were riddled with intersecting vertical shafts. "Any pits along here?" he asked at last.

There was a harsh laugh. "If there are, you'll be the first to know."

After what seemed an eternity of nightmare shuffling through the blackness, wondering if the next step would be into open space, Hatch saw a faint glow ahead. The tunnel took a gentle turn and he made out a ragged opening, framed in light. There was a faint hum of machinery. Streeter pushed him forward at a faster pace.

Hatch stopped at the point where the tunnel opened onto the main shaft of the Water Pit. Momentarily blinded after the long chase, it took him a moment to realize that only the banks of emergency lights running along the ladder array were still lit. Another sharp pain in his ear, and Streeter forced him forward onto the metal catwalk that connected the Boston Shaft to the array. Following behind, Streeter punched a keypad bolted to the side of the lift rail. There was a humming sound from below, and in a few moments the lift itself came into view, slowed, then locked into place beside the catwalk. Streeter prodded Hatch onto the platform, then took up position behind him.