Greg Rucka - Alpha

But nobody comes by, nobody interrupts him, and the clock is now reading twenty-one minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time, as he straightens from tying his boots. He gives Pooch a shove with one foot, knocking the costume further under a bench, then moves back into the hallway, turning north, along the Gordo Tunnel. Walking like he knows where he’s going and like he belongs here, both of which are true, he steps to the side of the hallway as two custodians come rushing toward him, past him, paying no mind. One wheels a mop bucket, the other a garbage can, and he knows they’re racing to clean up a “protein spill,” and from the way they’re hustling, whoever blew chunks topside chose to do it at an inopportune moment or in an inopportune place or, conceivably, both.

The tunnel hits a T intersection about thirty meters further along, where it’s bisected by the Flashman Tunnel, and Gabriel makes a right, heading east. Overhead, in the park, he’s approaching Flower Sister country, and the traffic in the tunnel reflects that. He passes two Lavenders in whispered conversation, another Friend in a navy blazer escorting a forty-something woman who is weeping openly, and since she’s too old to be lost, Gabriel figures she’s about to be arrested for something. It occurs to him that what’s going to happen in the next seventeen or so minutes may, possibly, be seen as a favor to her of sorts.

But probably not.

The Flashman Tunnel, like the Gordo Tunnel, has maintenance hallways branching off it, their designations painted on the walls at each juncture. He turns south, opens the door on his right, and steps into the Flashman E-5 compressor room. The lighting in here is even dimmer than in the tunnels, and he gives himself a couple of seconds for his eyes to adjust. Then he moves forward, skirting around the main ductwork that juts from the center of the floor and the hissing, thrumming machinery that closes in on three sides. The noise is enough that he doesn’t trust his ears to warn him, and so he takes another look over his shoulder, just to be certain he’s alone, before dropping to his belly and reaching beneath a snarl of machinery for the duffel bag. There is a moment-just a moment-with his arm extended and his fingers closing on nothing when he thinks it isn’t there, that it’s been discovered. Then his fingertips are stroking ripstop nylon, and he’s pulling the bag free, unzipping it.

He assembles the pistol, then loads and chambers his first round. Next, he takes out the radio, switches it on. He has to hold it to his ear when he keys the transmit button twice in rapid succession, saying nothing, listening for the slight squelch that tells him it’s working, even if, below ground, sending or receiving any radio transmission is hopeless. He gets to his feet, tucking the pistol into his waistband, smoothing his shirt down. The radio he leaves on, but, returning to the duffel, exchanges it for the cell phone.

He sees the knife then, closed, where he left it, and takes it out, turning it in his hand. In the light here, he can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees the dried blood from the man he had to kill. The man who made it necessary to move this cache.

The man had fought like a lion. The man had fought for his life.

He clips the knife in his pocket, zips the duffel closed, pulls the straps up his left arm, onto his shoulder. With purpose, he leaves the compressor room, turns back into the Flashman Tunnel, retracing his steps. He passes other employees, then a clock, and it’s now thirty-nine minutes past ten, WilsonVille Standard Time. He’ll be cutting it close, he knows it.

He reaches the T intersection again, turns south once more onto Gordo, walking back in the direction he came as quickly as he dares. Friends, custodians, safety officers bustle about, moving in all directions, the energy and crowd above reflected in the motion and purpose around him. Voices seem louder, though he thinks that might be adrenaline. He reaches one of the ramps up to the surface, emerges into the courtyard behind the Dawg Days Theatre, on the north side of Town Square. There’s a blue-blazer Friend here, his job to make certain nobody wanders around backstage who shouldn’t, and he gives Gabriel a nod of greeting, and Gabriel returns it. Through the walls, he can hear the sound effects of one of the Pooch cartoons playing in the theater, a ripple of delighted laughter from the audience.

He steps outside, into sunlight that’s shocking in its brightness and that renders him blind for an instant. A rush of noise accompanies it, the sound of the crowd and the clatter of cars racing along the wooden slats of Pooch Pursuit, rising up above and behind him, almost two hundred feet away. Shrieks of gleeful terror and piped music and voices jabbering and laughing.

Gabriel turns right, coming around the side of the building, looking across Town Square. This time, he checks his watch, and it is now a quarter to eleven precisely. On schedule, everything going to plan. Even with the crowds, the vendors, the Friends in costume signing autographs, he can be where he needs to be, easy.

He sees Dana.

She’s walking with a woman, and Gabriel can tell that the woman is a guest by the Celebration button on her shirt, visible even from here, big and sky-blue, with the letters in pink. The woman is maybe forty, attractive, wearing the expression of a harried mother. Dana’s wearing one of the navy blazers, and her posture shows that she’s listening hard to this woman, nodding, answering her, friendly and reassuring.

His first urge, almost uncontrollable, is to go to her, to take Dana by the hand and pull her after him toward the front gates, to get her out, to get her out now . Six minutes, now five, and even as he thinks that, he knows he can’t do it, that it’ll pull him off the schedule, that it will indict him.

She’ll be all right, he tells himself. She’ll be fine.

But his stomach is turning like flesh-eating worms in his belly, and he feels helpless and sick, and Dana and this woman are still walking together, heading north. North, away from the front gates. North, heading in his direction.

He turns parallel to their course, as if heading for the great big Wilson Restaurant, where there’s already a line formed for late brunch or early lunch. The menus are posted, and he can pretend to look at them as he watches out of his peripheral vision. Lilac’s Vegetarian Delight and Hendar’s Double-Patty Melt and Pooch’s Treat, an ice cream sundae big enough for three to share. Dana’s still talking to this woman, and he thinks he can hear her laugh above the voices all around as they come closer, closer, and then he hears the woman speaking.

“Well, they’re teenagers, so they never listen anyway. Being deaf is just a convenient excuse…”

Dana laughs just as she passes behind him.

“I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

“You’re fluent with ASL?”

“I am, yes, started learning sign in high school and continued with course work when I got to UCLA. I’ll be a senior in the fall…”

He loses the rest as someone demands to know why the hell this line isn’t moving. Steps back, watches Dana and this other woman continuing northeast now, along one of the main walkways that feed into Wild World. Then they’re swallowed by the crowds that seem to ebb and flow like tides on the way to the Euro Strasse.

He checks his watch. He’s burned three minutes, almost four.

It takes another two and a half to get across Wilson Town, to cross Town Square from the northeast to the southwest. He’s jostled and cursed at, and he can’t run, because first, there’s not enough room, and second, running would draw attention, especially running against the prevailing foot traffic. So he’s weaving, moving as quickly as he can, until he reaches the entrance to the Olde Tyme Arcade, just north of the Sheriff’s Office. Inside, he can see the place is perhaps half full, mostly young men and boys playing at pinball machines and refurbished video game cabinets. He turns, casting an eye at the front of the Sheriff’s Office, then back to the square.