Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

“Why wouldn’t I?” shot back Chapman. “It’s my job.”

“Good luck,” said Finn.

“Cheers.”

She left the two men standing there staring after her until she disappeared into the darkness.

Stone was still waiting in the firing range room. He considered his options. It didn’t take long since there weren’t many. He could stay here until he starved to death. Or he could go through the door.

Or...

He got up, grabbed the wire that the targets rode on and pulled it free. He wound one end of it around the door handle and over the existing pulleys. Then he crouched down behind the counter and wound the remainder of the wire around his hand. He counted to five and aimed his pistol at the door opening. He slowly pulled on the wire. The door handle lifted. He tugged harder. The door started to open. As soon as it was open halfway, a barrage of bullets poured through, clanging off metal surfaces in the firing range room.

Okay, probably against orders, the Russians are done playing around with stun darts.

He tugged on the door some more until it opened all the way, then tied off the wire onto a hook to keep the door open. He sidled along the counter and slid down the pair of NVGs he had brought. They were older and had a major drawback if the other side had night-vision equipment too.

He edged closer to the opening, but keeping something solid between him and the doorway at the same time. Then he did something unusual, at least to the untrained eye. He took off his goggles, but still kept them powered. He placed them on top of the counter, facing the doorway. Then he scuttled away, aimed his gun and waited for what he was pretty certain was coming.

The shots came. He counted four of them. Stone couldn’t see the rounds, but he was sure they had passed an inch above the red dot revealed by his goggles to someone looking at them with NV eyewear too. That was the drawback to the old-generation goggles. While on infrared power they painted a red dot basically on your forehead, allowing a sniper to draw a fatal bead.

But by firing the Russian had revealed his position to Stone by the muzzle flashes through the open doorway. He fired rapidly, once, twice and then a third and fourth time, aiming at a spot two inches above the flashes. Stone could tell by the weapon discharge that it was a pistol. If the Russian was firing from a classic shooting position, Stone’s target selection would coincide with his head, bypassing the body armor.

He heard a thump as the body hit the floor.

He got up, snared his NVGs and kept moving.

Three Russians down, three to go. Plus Friedman.

Finn and Knox made their way carefully across the catwalk that was suspended over a tank of foul-smelling liquid. They knew this for two reasons. One, because they could smell it, even if they couldn’t see it. And two, it was on the plan Stone had given them. But it was Chapman who’d told them the secret of passing safely over it. Stone hadn’t done so, because he had never intended for them to get inside this place.

They had to keep their weight in the center of the metal walkway. If they made a misstep and touched the sides, only bad things would happen. They had nearly reached the end of the catwalk when they heard it.

A groan.

Both men looked around, guns pointed at obvious threat points.

Another groan.

Finn whispered to Knox, “Sounds like it’s underneath us.”

“Thinking the same thing,” replied Knox.

“I recognized it.”

“The groan?”

Finn nodded. “Keep a lookout.” He dropped to his knees and put his face against the floor of the catwalk that was only inches from the top of the tank. “Caleb?” he said softly.

Another groan.

“Caleb?” he said in a louder voice as Knox gazed anxiously around.

Another groan and then, “Harry?” The voice was weak, the mind obviously muddled.

Drugged, was Finn’s first thought.

He looked up at Knox. “Remember what Chapman told us?”

Knox nodded and glanced around. “Got an idea.”

Keeping to the center of the walk, he headed back the way he had come. He couldn’t go back out the door they had come in. It had locked behind them and it was thick and made of stainless steel. But there was an old packing crate set against the wall. He slipped his gun in its holster, hefted the box, which weighed about fifty pounds, and carried it back over to where Finn was, again keeping to the center of the catwalk.

Each man climbed up on the railing of the catwalk. This was difficult for Knox with the weight of the crate, but he managed it. He looked at Finn and told him his plan.

“You ready?”

Finn nodded.

Knox counted to three and then dropped the box on the side of the catwalk. The floor immediately tilted down on that side while the other side tilted up, revealing a blackened strip of empty space on each side. The crate fell through the opening on the right side and they heard a splash. The foul smell got even fouler.

Finn, still holding on to the railing, dropped down until his foot was squarely in the empty space. As the floor tilted back up and into place, he jammed his foot against it, holding it open. Knox reached into the ruck-sack he carried on his back and slid out a length of rope. He tied one end to the railing and let the other drop through the opening.

Knox switched places with Finn and held the floor open with his foot. Finn grabbed the rope and lowered himself through. He landed in knee-deep muck.

“Caleb?”

“Harry?” the voice said groggily.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. At least I think I am.”

Finn switched on his flashlight and quickly found Caleb trussed up and sitting in the muck, which was up to his chest. Finn cut him loose and helped him through the opening and up to the catwalk.

“You okay?” Finn asked as the three men proceeded on into the next room.

Caleb slowly nodded. “Just a little woozy. They gave me a shot. Made me fuzzy. And the stench down there. I don’t think my sense of smell will ever be the same.” His face paled as his mind cleared. “Annabelle? Is she all right?”

“We’re still looking for her. Any idea where she might be?”

Caleb shook his head. “I just want to get out of this place. All of us.”

“That’s the plan,” said Knox.

“Where’s Oliver?” asked Caleb.

“In here somewhere,” replied Finn.

Stone passed into the next section. It had a mock street, building façades, a rotting 1960s-era sedan and mannequins filling in for real people. The mannequins all had bullet holes in their heads. He cleared this space and kept going.

The next room was the last one on this section.

The lab.

Stone cautiously pushed open the door and went inside. No lights here. Using his NV goggles, he checked the room methodically. He kept one hand on his goggles, ready to rip them off if he saw any hint of others using similar equipment, since the red dot would give away his position and probably his life as well.

As he looked around he noticed something odd. There were long tables set up against one wall of the lab. These tables were new. Various pieces of sophisticated-looking equipment were set up on these surfaces. Glistening metal contraptions with power cords trailing off to the floor. And test tubes in racks lining the walls. Elaborate microscopes and other equipment were centered on another table. On the floor in one corner was a metal cylinder about six feet in length. It had a digital readout screen and a square of glass in the center.

None of this was here the last time Stone had visited Murder Mountain. He had no idea what it represented or who had placed it here. And right now he didn’t have time to explore the issue.