Splicer (27 page)

Mohta had pushed open a heavy steel door at the north end of the basement maintenance area, gun raised, when Pierce broke into view, his head down and his arm tucked up close to his chest.  Pierce looked hurt, wounded. Mohta touched his throat, which throbbed constantly but erupted into a sharp stab of pain every time he swallowed.  He lowered his gun and stepped into the humid hallway.

"You look like hell."

Pierce turned his right shoulder to him. "You sound like hell. Here. Tie off my arm. Quick. And watch the fingers." Mohta took Pierce's black leather tie and pulled it tightly around his partner’s upper right arm. Pierce's face was the color of eggshells, his eyes rimmed with purple.

"Where did they go?" asked Mohta.

"In there," grunted Pierce, sucking in his breath as Mohta tightened the knot, pointing towards the pressure door set into the side of a sheet-metal panel.

"Let's go then," smiled Mohta. "Did you see the chick with him? This interrogation might be more interesting than we thought."

"You're insane," answered the other man through clenched teeth. "Nothing about this bug hunt has been easier than we thought."

Both Jayne and Grieves felt, at the same time, that they were walking through a structure that had never before been visited by human beings. The metallic sidewalls, the bell jar enclosed light fixtures, the roar of wind around them - created a totally alien landscape. As they covered ground, they felt the rush of air increase in volume. They were moving closer to the fans.

"I need you to testify, Grieves." Jayne said in a raised voice.

Grieves' jacket was flapping around his body like loose tar paper. "To what?"

"To the facts. To what
GeneFab
was up to."

"There is no more
GeneFab
. There's Rosenblatt with his pecker in his hands and a bunch of outdated equipment. I wouldn't give them ten grand for that company."

"What about the
Splicer
?"

"Soon to be public domain. That's another one of those genies you just can't keep in a bottle forever. Like fusion. Fission. Designer drugs. And
GeneFab
isn't even close."

They turned ninety degrees into another identical tunnel. "They were!"

"I figured it out, then got bored with the whole thing."

"Well, I’m guessing you’re not bored now,” said Jayne. “And since you’ve got their gun, I think you should wait at the next bend for them."

"Hey, you said they couldn’t follow us.”

“I never tested the theory on two ex-marines. Which is what they look like. I was a student when I first learned about these chambers.”

“So you want a shootout at the OK corral? Me versus the Marines? These guys don’t seem concerned by crowds - or by rules. They’re trained killers who just want to cross me off a list. And now, you too." He slowed. "By the way, who is this mysterious friend of Shay's I should know about?"

"Quinn."

Grieves laughed, a short bark. "That makes sense. Since he owns about 5% of
GeneFab
."

Jayne wanted to feel surprise but lacked the energy. "Since when?"

"Learned about it during our first trial. Asked around. You know lawyers? Always looking for a good investment. Slumlording isn't what it used to be."

Jayne slipped on the dusty sheet metal deck. She understood now why Quinn had held back with the scoop on Shay and Grieves. He was trying to protect his investment. De-railing the sale of GeneFab could cost Quinn a fortune. But whomever he had told, had led someone straight to Shay. He was in it up to his money belt now. "Maybe we can negotiate with them?" She pointed down the hallway behind them.

"What do you have that they want?"

She stopped, her hand on the smooth sidewall. "I don't know what they want. Do you?"

He ignored her. "How do we get out of this fucking tin box?"

She leaned back. The roar of the air in the plenum made it impossible to tell if they were being pursued or how close they might be. Their voices might be drawing them. "If you don't have any ideas, I do."

Grieves had his legs splayed to keep his balance. "Then management is always open to new ideas."

"At the end of this hallway is a larger room. A nexus. With a big high-speed fan. The suction is so great, once you’re inside, you can't get out again until the fans are shut down.

He looked anxiously ahead. "They open outward?"

"For safety. If we could lure them into there, they would be trapped."

Grieves laughed harshly. "What do you suggest?  Peanut butter and crackers?"

"Us."

He shifted the handgun from one hand to another. His jacket collar was whipping his cheek, which was a deep shade of pink.

"Then what?" he asked.

"We get out. We put some space between us."

"What have we got to lose? One condition though. Once we're out of here you and your client get out of my face for good."

Jayne cocked her head to one side, her eyes hidden by her hair. "We've made a mistake. They're coming fast. I can hear them now. This is a one way street and they've only got one way to go."

Jayne began to run, out of instinct. Grieves followed clumsily. The walls were vibrating with the roar of the giant six-foot fans pulling the stale air out of the building and feeding it into the air conditioning and heating chambers.

At the next turn, with the column of air in the plenum as taut as the skin on a drum, they discovered that the tunnel ended. A door, a pressure-sealed curved steel apparatus looking like a small version of a bank vault door, faced them. Clearly displayed on the side panel was a warning, an image of a multi-armed blade with a red circle around it. On each side of the door stood a large louvered grill, the sound of the blades spinning and the air rushing over the louvers making speech almost impossible. Grieves staggered over to the door and attempted to pull it open slightly. He struggled with the welded steel rod that held it shut and was able to create just enough of a gap to generate a shriek of air pressure around the seal that wailed like a siren in the close quarters of the nexus. He let go of the handle and the gap was instantly closed with a sharp thump of metal against metal.

"We're screwed!" He barked. "We're going nowhere." He turned to the hallway they had just entered from, aware that at any moment one or more of their pursuers would jog into view. This was as good a place as any for these mercenaries to carry out their assignment. The roar of the fan blades would cover the sounds of gunshots or Grieves' feeble attempts at yelling for help.

Grieves looked to see what McEwan was up to. She was staring into space.

Mohta scampered over the threshold of the last section of tunnel with his gun leveled in front of him. He was tired and angry with himself for letting a bunch of civilians make him work so hard.
You always underestimate amateurs because their actions were often so unpredictable. When you expect them to run, they fight. Expect them to cower, they take the offensive. And they often showed signs of desperation early - far before a jaded professional would ever considers a last ditch tactic. Anger wasn't good either. Being mad screwed up your judgment.
But he was mad all right. He wanted these two.

The sealed door into the fan system took a pry bar and all of the strength he had to lever it open. Of course, Pierce, with his wrecked arm, was no use at all. They also had to be careful when they squeezed in through the door that it didn’t slam down on their hands. The pressure was enormous.

It was with some surprise then that Mohta entered the last section of the tunnel to find it empty and featureless except for a door and a number of small air grills. He came to a smooth stop and was about to investigate the shining wall of louvers in front of him when he saw a scrap of material wedged into the seal of the plenum door. He moved closer. It was dark blue. The sleeve or back hem of the coat of the programmer.

Mohta smiled. He stepped back from the door carefully and slid over to the grill. Between the louvers and in the unlit space beyond he could make out the vague shape of several large churning blades in the far wall. He could feel the strident pressure of the warm air being sucked over the slats of the grate. He couldn’t make out a human shape in the next room - nobody kneeling down in a corner. They must be behind the vent wall, below the louvered area. Mohta's anger was pulling at him and roaring in his ears like the angry vortex of the air swirling through the tunnel. He heard the thump of his partner's feet breaking stride as he careened into the room.

Mohta motioned his partner over to the singular door, pointing at the louvers. He raised two fingers.
Two
he mouthed. Then he pointed at the scrap of fabric. Since Pierce could not muster the strength to hinge the door open, Mohta handed his gun to him and pressed him up against the wall near the door, then placed both hands on the handle and pulled. The door inched open reluctantly at first, the sound of air whining though the narrow opening loud in their ears above the dull roar of the fans. The suction was intense but the door began to move more easily as the gap increased. Mohta strained, wondering how the two of them, the woman and the pudgy programmer, were able to pry this open. Obviously they were caught by surprise when it slammed shut again, catching the fabric of the short man's coat. It would be just as easy to lose a hand or a leg.

When the door was ajar by roughly a foot, vibrating in his hands like a power tool, Mohta moved closer to the frame ready to signal his partner to fire into the corner where he believed the prey must be. At this point, two things happened. Mohta's partner, his right arm useless and swollen, reached up with his left, a 9mm revolver in his purple claw-like grip. He moved toward the open space of the door where the force of the current of air pulled him bodily forward into the actual opening. He buckled over, aware that he was exposing himself to fire from within the fan room, yet unable to stop himself. The pull of the fans sent him forward over the lip of the doorframe.

The injured agent reached up instinctively with his right hand to grip the edge of the door - the pain of contact against the shattered bones and torn ligaments of his fingers excruciating. Mohta saw in his partners face a look of surprise and agony, but there was little he could do. He let up on the door slightly to close the opening, but this served to increase the air pressure and knock him off center.

Pierce went down in a heap, struck the shiny metal floor of the inside chamber and slid awkwardly towards the six foot churning blades of one of the fans. Mohta tried to squeeze into the narrow opening but only served to trap himself between the door and frame, his clothing tight against his body in the relentless tug of the airflow. His partner continued to slide forward on the steel flooring, his face a mask of agony and surprise, trying to pull himself up with a hand that was twisted out of shape. He struck the blades with his arm raised in front of him. In a flash the aching fingers were gone, then the hand up to the wrist, a white denuded bone protruding from the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

Mohta heard Pierce grunt above the thrum of the blades. Then he saw the springy bones of Pierce's forearm slap against the heavy blades. Within seconds the agent’s horror was ended when the arcing arms of the fan worked up to his shoulder and slammed into his skull. The blades slid to an angry stop. A froth of pink and dark bits of marrow were streaked along the sides of the housing. What was left of Pierce lay still. The huge suspended motor groaned and complained; the space filled with the sharp smell of ozone and burning insulation.

Finally the motor went silent, the drone in the room now the single hum of the remaining fan.

Within seconds, the rush of air and the booming noise of the fans subsided. Mohta turned, his face flushed, feeling the weight of the door diminish. Then he heard a slight popping sound and the material of his light jacket jumped under his arm. He looked down at it curiously. He felt heat grow across his chest. Across the room, a grill cover was kicked away and his quarry was crawling from a small vent, gun in hand. He then realized he had been shot. Grieves had the weapon pointed at him. Mohta squeezed his fingers around his forearm feeling blood well up between his fingers.
The little weasel had him
.
This fucking amateur. He would have his balls on a platter before the day was through.

The woman crawled out behind the programmer, her blond hair across her face. Mohta couldn't make out her expression, but her body language showed no fear. Grieves waved him into the inside chamber of the room where his partner lay dead. He stepped back mutely, his jaw muscles tight. Then Grieves closed the door on him and slammed down the locking bar.

With the fan running at half-pressure and the airflow reduced, Jayne and Grieves were easily able to open the nearest hatch and escape back into the maintenance halls. They loped down a green corridor until they came to an exit sign. Jayne pushed open the door and ran headlong into a man with a pockmarked face dressed in a dark flight jacket. He looked surprised at first but when Grieves emerged through the door he cleanly brought his fist down on the programmer’s right arm and with the other hand scooped up the weapon. Grieves nursed his elbow and groaned as the team leader spun Jayne around and pressed the gun into the small of her back.

"March," was all he said.