Splicer (25 page)

Above them they heard a door hinge squeal. Grieves leaned towards her and whispered angrily "What's the largest object you have in your purse?"

"Better try your own purse Grieves. I didn't carry one today."

"Keys then," he rasped. "Do you have keys?"

Nodding her head, she pulled a ring of keys from her jacket pocket and pushed them at him, hearing now for the first time a vague cautious step on the stairs high above them. He pushed them between his fingers, like a spiked set of knuckles, closed his eyes and drove his fist against the glass. It cracked but didn't break. Suddenly, above them, the footsteps began to beat like drums on the steel staircase. Grieves cursed, then punched harder. The safety glass crumbled into the basement corridor. He reached onto the jagged opening and strained, his body arching up against the door. He pulled his arm out, his hand covered in blood.

"You try!" he yelled in her ear. She reached through the angry small mouth of the door and instantly felt the heat and humidity of the basement on her face. She pushed her arm down, the noise of the stairs moving and creaking in the tightly confined space.  Whoever was coming down the stairs was almost to their level. The glass cut through the light cloth of her jacket. She inched up, her face against the dusty steel surface of the door. Her attackers were so close now she could hear their ragged breathing above her, their feet pounding and sliding toward them.

She finally felt the knob slip in her hands, and then turn. Grieves, feeling the door give, pushed her back as it swung free, her arm twisted in the opening. The breath went out of her as her back slammed into the wall. She pulled her arm away, dazed - points of light danced in front of her, not sure if it was the blow or the fury she felt for Grieves.

She was turned harshly again, then a rough hand on her back propelled her through the opening and into a concrete corridor where she landed painfully on her knees. She heard the door close behind them and Grieves' voice echoed in the corridor.

"Let's go, McEwan. Move it."

She pulled herself up, turned and grabbed Grieves by the collar, pushing him back against the tunnel wall. His anger turned to surprise.

"You push me one more time like that Grieves and I'll turn you over to those goons so quick they'll think you’re fast food." Her lips were quivering, her eyes molten.

She squeezed his collar tighter, then shrugged him off and wiped her hands on her jeans. Then she jumped, a face at the broken glass.

"Open up! Police!" a voice shouted from behind the door. The handle rattled. It was self-locking - probably a fire door of some kind.

"Show us your badge," yelled McEwan. The face pulled back.
Shit, they are cops
she thought.
Probably tracking Grieves as part of the Shay murder investigation.
She waited for the ID to show, feeling stupid but relieved. Grieves stood rooted to the spot. A dark leather clad arm extended through the hole. There was no ID. It was reaching for the doorknob.

Jayne didn't hesitate. She turned her back to the door and kicked upward at the extended hand with her left foot. Her hardwood heels drove into the tanned hand and the man behind the glass let out a howl. She stamped again, harder, drawing blood this time.  She heard the snap of delicate finger bones. When she turned, the arm had been retrieved, the glint of a gun coming up in the dark.

"Grieves!" she yelled, diving at him. Grieves' head connected with a suspended steel hanger and he winced in pain. She pushed him up flat against the cement wall as an arm, holding a thirty-two-caliber handgun, protruded from the hole in the door, like a faceless armed tentacle. They stared at it, the movement aimless and uncertain.

Grieves rubbed his head, his face the color of raw meat and then kicked out at it, the gun flying backwards. It bounced on the painted cement floor. The hand retreated again.

The two of them stood shakily against the wall, watching the door. Jayne heard the light tread of rubber-soled feet tracking away from them, up through the hollow of the building. She knew if she ran for the gun, it would put her in sight of another possible weapon. Surely they had two, or more. If they ran for it, as fast as they were able to flee down the basement alleyway, within a matter of seconds the arm would protrude, a gun would fire and they would be an easy target.

Grieves nudged her and she shrugged him off. She stared at the dark space within the door. She wanted to creep back and run but her hard soled shoes, the same ones that had acted as a reasonable weapon, would betray her. She swore lightly when the hand shot out again, this time to the right, but it was awkward and off kilter. As it slipped off the outside handle Grieves launched himself at it and twisted it back. It was strong and bulky but Grieves' anger and his entire weight pulled it back against the jagged glass. There was an angry grunt, a sepulchral voice.

"God damn it, I'll shoot."

"Go ahead, asshole. Shoot the only person on the planet that has what you want."  There was a movement behind the door, which only made the attacker’s grip more tentative. Grieves pulled the limb down and across and then fell, his whole weight on the one arm. Jayne watched in horror as bright blood seemed to flow from the under arm, like a blossom of pain. An artery was severed. Grieves pulled the arm back suddenly, his face twisted in anger. He felt a snap like the green bow of a tree giving way under too much weight. He turned and skated for the gun.

"Let's go!" he yelled at Jayne picking it up, a smile now creasing his face. "These guys aren't so tough."

Rusty had hung back from the entrance to the hall, his back to a poster for an Aids Concert.  As the MTPUG members filled the hall he grew more confident of identifying anyone there solely to spy on Grieves. Most of the visitors were students, a certain type of student. Generally baggy jeans or cotton pants, many with longish hair, scruffy shoes. A bedraggled lot. A random adult filled out the compliment, often with gray hair and the same unkempt look seemed to be a common signature. Two of the older gentlemen came with their grey-haired wives. 

As Rusty switched positions again, his back stiff, he noticed an unusual pair moving towards him. Both men were big, over six feet tall with wide shoulders - an aggressive cocky look to them. One wore his hair medium length like a businessman, the other close cropped and oiled. The businessman wore an expensive black leather jacket, Ralph Lauren striped shirt and hiking boots. His partner wore new track shoes, a UCLA pullover and sweats. There wasn't a pocket-protector between them.  Rusty watched them nonchalantly amble into the meeting room, then one of them pulled the doors closed behind them. Could these be the organizers - the chairman and president of the Users Group? Rusty moved away from the wall and looked at his watch.  8:00 P.M.  Two more stragglers, distinctly students, entered the hall and rushed through the steel doors.

Rusty had watched every entrant over the past thirty minutes and only the two "linebackers" could be construed as possible candidates for the agents that Jayne feared.  They could be cops as well, easily. He was almost certain now that they could never be leaders of this motley crew of hackers. In fact, he noted, no one smiled in recognition as they entered. He paced. If these guys want Grieves, how would they get him? How would he do it? Place one agent at the entrance, one at the exit and wait? During the break they I.D. Grieves and whisk him away. Who would stop it? And even if they tried all they would have to say is they were cops and judging from the looks of these two bruisers, no one would doubt it.

What about Jayne?  It's highly unlikely that they could identify her even less likely that they had the slightest interest in her. Was that good?  They might just consider a bullet to the head more expeditious. Don't underestimate this situation Rusty.  The bodies are starting to pile up. And these could be the same soulless assholes who killed Shay.

He moved to the door and held his ear to it. He could hear only a lonely muffled voice, unreadable.

How could they have tracked him?  Then he remembered that one of them was carrying a MTPUG program.
We've all been idiots.
These guys did exactly what Jayne and he had done.
Rusty felt like screaming.  Inside now was Grieves, likely in close proximity to Jayne. And they had no way out. There was this entry to the front of the dais and perhaps one other exit. There had to be - it was code. Where? At the front near the stage? Impossible. The tunnels cut through the earth directly to the side door. The back of the stage was built directly under the staff parking lot.

Rusty moved down the second tunnel, which ran from the side entrance at a 90-degree angle west. It faded off to a distant pair of doors, open to an area called the Hub, what would be the back of the hall. But the seats were angled upward to the rear of the room, perhaps as much as a full story or more. Of course, the exit would be one level up. He took off at a run for the doors to the Hub.

Past the short wall of doors, Rusty turned right into a section off the hall filled with cheap plastic chairs and an assortment of vending machines. In the back corner was a red EXIT sign. He pushed through the door into a dim airless unpainted stairwell. He climbed two sets of stairs and came to another door, this one windowless. Once through this door, Rusty was plunged into complete darkness. He reached back and felt for the release bar and froze. Ahead, and down in the dimensionless night he could hear voices.  Then silence. He came to a depression in the wall, another door. Again, below him he heard a thump, then another like wood against steel, then a moaning expletive. For a moment he imagined teenagers locked in some dark carnal struggle, then he heard another sound - footsteps moving quietly and quickly up towards him, growing louder - another voice from within the concrete catacombs.

"God damn it, I'll shoot!"

The footsteps hesitated for a moment. He heard the sound of thick cotton fabric against the rough wall. It was the linebacker with the expensive track shoes and the moussed crew cut. He was roughly one set of stairs away, somewhere below him in the absolute darkness. Rusty heard him begin to move again and his heart began to thump so loud in his chest he lost track of the footsteps. If he ran now, he would be no match for this athletic juggernaut who was at least five years younger than him and ten sizes bigger across the chest. And he was likely armed.
Stumbled. I've stumbled right into the middle of an operation designed to set me up for a murder wrap.
Rusty slouched by the top of the stairs. The Monty Python inquisition sketch echoed in his brain.
Surprise. Surprise and fear. Surprise and fear and a night out with hired assassins.
The juggernaut was coming closer, faster.  He was breathing hard - after all, he just ran up three flights of stairs. Fear was not a commodity Rusty lacked. Surprise could be achieved; but it wouldn't be easy. The juggernaut was almost upon him. Rusty swung out in the darkness; his fists clenched together, his body twisting toward the open stairwell.

A man with a face like a Doberman pinscher, his black turtleneck covering his scarred neck, stood at the entrance to Donner Hall. A bulky nylon jacket covered his holstered chest, a sleek chromed 9mm pistol comfortably tucked under his left arm. Pierce and Mohta, his two guns, had entered the meeting room fifteen minutes before while he held back, watchful. There should be no trouble. In a sense they were over-equipped to deal with one short out-of-shape wise guy. But the powers-that-be asked for back-up, three of them. Any time now, once the intermission had been called, Pierce would come ambling around the corner with a subdued hostage and a contented smile on his face.

:

The team leader didn't know this yet, but Pierce was hurting. A wave of nausea born more from his own anxious stupidity than the damage done to both arms, was beating against his diaphragm. Pierce pulled himself up with the palm of his right hand against the wall. He felt like he had spent a weekend there, his face pressed against the warm steel, the smell of his own sweat painted across the door. He felt dizzy and knew then that he was losing too much blood. His right arm felt thick and out of proportion. He made a move to pull his right jacket sleeve down, then sucked back the pain.

Most of the fingers in his left hand were broken, useless. He gripped the sleeve in his teeth and pulled. Then, above him in the gray coolness he heard his partner, Mohta, make a noise that took his anger away and ignited him to action.

:

Rusty, in his ignorance, had aimed a two fisted blow at his attackers nose, which could have been a mistake. Mohta's was wide, thick and armor-like. Fortunately, the trajectory of Redfield's arms placed the final impact somewhat lower, towards the light whistling sound, which caused him to duck. Two balled fists struck Mohta's Adam’s apple in full stride, which caused some of the cartilage to fracture. Mohta doubled over, let out a strangled cry of surprise and stepped back into a whirling mass of air molecules. He fell hard on the concrete steps, rolled, and lay still, dazed. Rusty who almost flung himself over the first step, flexed his aching fingers and listened.

Grieves sucked on one raw finger, a flap of skin hanging loose from the nail. He trotted along just behind Jayne. To his surprise, the door, now a hundred yards away, remained closed.

"I think that guy’s decided to look for a different route," he barked.  Jayne came to a stop, and looked down the poorly lit corridor.

"There were two sets of footsteps on the stairs."

"Damn," sputtered Grieves, wiping his bleeding hand on his sleeve. "Then he's gone back up to the lecture hall."

Trotting beside him Jayne stole a glance behind them. "Then where to?"

Grieves looked up trying to get his bearings. "I don't know where we are. You think I hang around this basement?"

"I've seen you in worse places."

"I should have shot that asshole when I had the chance," mused Grieves distantly.

"You talking about that
swat team
or Rusty?"

"Rusty is the one who got us into this, McEwan. I don't see him helping us out."

"He's around here someplace. And we need all the help we can get."

"I see Rusty, I shoot."

She stopped, her rapid breathing flaring her nostrils. "Grieves! Go! Leave me out of this. You've got a death wish. I've risked enough. I only hope I can convince those mercenaries that I'm just along for the ride." She waved her arm at him like an offending bug.

"You're not going anywhere without me." He pointed the gun in her direction.  "And you seem to know your way around so lets just find the least direct route back to the parking lot." Grieves grabbed Jayne's shoulder and turned her around.

"Rusty's your answer. Don't you get it?  Shay saw me on the street the same day he was arrested. It was just an unlucky break. No one else would have recognized me."

"You were here then, in the city?"

"Of course." He looked at her haughtily. She started to speak then, hesitated.

"So Shay recognized you. Then who did she tell?'

"Rusty," he yelled, his eyes wide. "Listen to me, Rusty
knew
. She called him.  Then these mercenaries show up. Don't you fucking get it?"

Jayne pulled back a handful of hair from her face and flicked another glance down the alleyway. Then she set her hand on her hip, deep in thought, her teeth tugging on her lower lip. "You're missing something, Grieves."

"What?" he nearly screamed. "What am I missing?"

"There was someone else she called. Someone we both know. Someone you're forgetting about."