The Unwanted (44 page)

"What?"

"The child," she said.

"Iris," Quinn repeated.

"I won't leave without her."

Quinn went silent as he turned to the side and stared at the empty corner of the room for several seconds before looking back at her. "What if we get you someplace safe, and then I go look for her?"

"I'm not leaving her."

"The place I mean is still within the facility. But we'll have a better chance to find her if I go alone."

She could see Nate glance at his partner, concern on his face. "I told you I don't trust you," she said.

"Without us you won't even have the chance to find her."

He was right, and she knew it.
Oh, God,
she thought.
What choice do I have?

The simple answer was none.

She nodded. "Okay."

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

Quinn held out his free hand to help her up, but she avoided it and rose on her own.

"From now until we get you hidden, you have to do exactly as I say, and no talking."

"Okay."

He looked at her feet, and she followed his gaze.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you have any shoes?"

"Right . . . yes."

She spotted her tennis shoes and started to sit down so she could put them on, but he said, "Not yet. You'll be quieter in bare feet. But once we get outside, you'll need them."

"All right." She was starting to believe him.

"Just don't drop them."

She nodded, then followed him out the door of her cell.

It was weird to be there without the guards pushing her around. It felt almost like she was doing something wrong. As they approached the entrance to the main corridor, she glanced into the open door of the first cell, and jerked to a stop.

There was a man covered in blood lying in the middle of the floor.

"He's dead?" she asked, surprised she could manage the words.

"Yes," Quinn said.

"I heard gunshots," she said.

"I heard them, too."

"I tried to let him know I was here. That he wasn't alone."

"I know," the man said. "That's how we found you. He told us."

"He . . . told you?"

But he didn't answer. Instead he ushered her toward where Nate stood near the exit.

"Later," he whispered to her as she passed.

"Back to the tunnel?" Nate said.

"Yes," Quinn said. He looked at Marion. "Ready?"

She hesitated. "I don't know."

He gave her one of his warm smiles again. "That'll have to do."

Quinn let Nate take point, and had Marion Dupuis walk between them.

It had been touch and go with her back in the cell. She'd understandably associated him with her kidnappers. Given the circumstances, Quinn would have done the same. But at least they'd gotten her to come along, and even better, she seemed to be starting to trust him.

They had made it almost halfway back when Nate stopped abruptly. His hand flew up, palm toward Quinn and Marion, telling them to freeze. They were about ten feet from where the hallway took a ninety-degree right turn.

Footsteps. Heading their way.

Quinn did a quick scan of the immediate area. No doors, no alcoves, no place to hide. They would never make it back to the previous section without being either heard or seen.

He listened again. It sounded like it was just a single person. Tucker perhaps?

He put his hands on Marion's shoulders and pushed her against the wall.

"Stay here," he mouthed.

She nodded, her eyes were wide with fear.

To Nate he mouthed, "Quietly." Then motioned for him to get as close to the corner as possible.

Once his apprentice was in position, Quinn took two steps out into the center of the corridor, then waited.

The steps were steady but hurried, as if whoever it was had somewhere to be.

Two steps away.

One.

A man—not the Australian—rushed around the corner, his forward momentum taking him within three feet of Quinn before he realized he wasn't alone. He was wearing fatigue pants and a black T-shirt. The barrel of an M16 peeked above his shoulder.

"Who the hell are—" the man started to say.

Nate smashed the butt of his pistol against the back of the man's head, forcing him to stumble into Quinn.

Nate hit him again, and the man sagged against Quinn, unconscious.

Blood from a cut caused by the blows trickled down his neck and onto the floor.

Without missing a beat, Quinn tossed the M16 to Nate, then hoisted the man over his shoulder. Nate was already kneeling on the floor, wiping away the blood with a piece of cloth he'd gotten from his backpack.

"Come on," Quinn whispered, motioning to the woman.

"You're taking him with us?" she said.

"We can't leave him here."

She didn't seem to like the idea, but she didn't protest further.

Soon they were back in the unused northern hallway that led to the facility's neglected emergency exit, no one else interfering with their escape.

"All the way into the tunnel," Quinn said.

Once they were surrounded by the old concrete again, he set the man on the ground. He patted the prisoner down. In the guy's pants Quinn found a roll of cash and a cell phone.

"Tie him up. Gag him," Quinn said to Nate. "Shoot him if you have to."

"He's one of the guards," the woman said. "You weren't lying to me, were you?"

"No. I wasn't."

"You'll find Iris?"

Quinn hesitated. "I'll try."

"Please. She's only a little girl. I can't imagine what they'll do to her, what they've already done. Please. Please find her."

Quinn nodded, wanting to promise but knowing that he couldn't.

To Nate he said, "Keep all the doors closed in case they come looking for him or for her."

"Right."

"I might be gone awhile," Quinn said. "You'll be safe here. But if it's within an hour or so of dawn, get her out of here before it's too light."

Nate didn't appear to be happy about the idea, but he nodded.

"Orlando's on her way," Quinn said. "See if you can reach her by phone. She can help you, especially if you need to get out without me."

"But they're leaving tonight," Marion said.

"What?" Quinn asked, surprised.

"I overheard them talking outside my cell. They said they would be out of here before sunup."

"Son of a bitch," Quinn said. "You're sure?"

"I don't know, but it's what I heard."

"Okay," he said, trying to sound reassuring. He looked at Nate. "Stay with the plan. But chances are I'll be back before you have to leave."

"I'm counting on it," Nate said.

"So am I."

CHAPTER
33

QUINN WAS PRETTY SURE MOST OF THE ACTIVITY
was taking place on the lower level, the one the map had indicated contained the laboratory. He didn't even want to think about what that might mean, what the bastards might be doing there.

The problem he faced was how to get down there without being detected. As far as he could tell, there was only one direct route. The elevator. Unfortunately, he couldn't just get on and ride down without taking a huge risk of getting caught. And while his job was full of risks, the smaller they were, the better.

Before leaving the northern hallway, he looked at the map again. There had to be stairs somewhere, didn't there? OSHA would have had a field day with this place. Of course, it had been built thirty years before the Occupational Safety and Health Administration was even formed. But there still had to be some other way down. It wouldn't make sense not to have a backup.

But if there was, it wasn't on the map.

Short of tunneling through the rock by himself, it looked like the elevators were his only choice. Or, more specifically, the elevator shaft.

According to the map, there were two elevator cars running side by side in a shaft that went from the lowest level up to the surface. If he could somehow get into the shaft, he could make his way down without being seen. Except the only way in would be through the elevator doors. That meant taking the hallway on the other side of the main east-west corridor.

He swore under his breath, counted to three in his head, then reentered the Yellowhammer labyrinth.

The sentry at the guardhouse reported that there had been no further activity outside the gate. Good news for sure, Tucker thought. It was just further confirmation that Furuta had come alone.

Tucker guessed that the man had been an advance scout, probably had received a tip and had been checking it out first before calling in a whole team. Intelligence gathering, the stiffs at the Agency would have called it. Even if Furuta had somehow gotten word back to his people—which Tucker was confident he hadn't—they wouldn't be able to mount any kind of response before Tucker's team evacuated in a few hours.

The radio on his desk beeped, then the voice of one of his men came on. "Tucker?"

"Go for Tucker," Tucker said.

"Mr. Rose is asking for you."

"Tell Mr. Rose I'll be there in just a bit."

"Said you should be here supervising us."

Tucker tensed. "Tell him I'll be there in just a bit."

"Sure. Got it."

Tucker felt like throwing the radio across the room. What did Mr. Rose want him to do? Take care of security? Or babysit a bunch of grown men who could handle a packing job just fine on their own?

Whatever,
he thought. Mr. Rose was the one paying the bills. If he wanted Tucker to come down to the lab to help, fine.

He radioed the guardhouse one last time just to make sure nothing had changed. All was still quiet. He switched to channel four.

"This is Tucker," he said into the mic. "Everybody up."

He waited for a moment, then repeated the message.

A sleepy voice came over the speaker. "What time is it?"

"We'll be loading the helicopters in a couple hours."

"A couple hours? Hell, I'm going back to sleep."

"Get up," Tucker said. "And wake the others. I don't need any of you still groggy when you fly us out of here."

There was a pause. "We'll be fine."

"Get up or you won't be paid."

"Goddammit," the pilot said.

"Check in with me after you eat."

Tucker slipped the radio into the holder on his belt, knowing the pilot would get his flight teams moving. Maybe he'd stop in the kitchen and get a bite himself before heading down to the lab.

Anything to delay being near the cargo.

Quinn wished he had a wrecking bar. He would have only needed the small, foot-long version. It would have made things a hell of a lot easier. What he did have was a nine-inch flat blade screwdriver.

He worked it between the sliding doors of the elevator on the left. There was a rubber lining inside, so he had to be careful not to rip it. Once the screwdriver shaft was all the way in, he pushed sideways, trying to create an opening between the doors.

There was resistance at first, the doors holding their position as he applied pressure. Then the right half gave an inch. He jammed the fingers of his right hand in, holding the door in place, then dropped the screwdriver on the floor at his feet and used his left hand to grab the other half.

As he pushed his hands away from each other, the doors began to part. A few inches, then six, then a foot. But at twenty-four inches they stopped, some now-ancient security device kicking in.

He leaned through the opening. It was dark and he could see neither the bottom nor the top of the shaft. At least the elevator car wasn't there.

He scanned the walls just inside, looking for something to anchor his rope. There were several pipes to the right, but he wasn't quite sure how he would reach them. The most promising thing he found was above the opening—a steel bolt sticking out of the wall several inches. It was nowhere near a perfect solution, but Quinn thought he could use it to maneuver over to the pipes.