by Tim Tigner
Seconds later, the bell chimed and the elevator door opened and Oz was there. She fell into his arms and relaxed into his embrace—until the words he whispered in her ear turned her stomach to ice.
Sabrina trusted her husband, respected her husband, and deferred to her husband. They had committed themselves not only to each other, but also to the same driving cause. Nonetheless, she was hesitant to blindly take such rash and repulsive action mere seconds after emerging from her dark ordeal—especially since it was Katya and Achilles who protected and then freed her.
“Do as I say, my virtuous princess,” Oz said, calling her by the Arabic translation of her name. “There’s no time to explain now, but I assure you that all will become clear soon enough and you will be forever grateful that we were so quick to act.”
While Achilles cranked away with the speed of a spinning top, spraying sweat and spreading heat, Sabrina accepted the headset Oz pressed into the hand behind her back. Somehow this whole unbelievable, unexpected, unprecedented experience had come full circle. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why.
But she would do as she was told.
When Achilles bear-hugged Katya in a repeat performance of what Oz had done when she stepped from the lift a mere two minutes earlier, Sabrina and her husband slipped anesthetic headsets over their unsuspecting, unprotected ears.
Their two heroic friends slumped to the floor like robots unplugged with Achilles somehow still clutching Katya in his arms.
Sabrina stared at them for a few seconds, absorbing the second half of the show she’d seen start three days back. It was disconcerting, observing people she knew to be so animated instantly rendered so helpless. “What is this all about, Lion of God?” she asked, using the Arabic translation of his name.
Oz held up a finger. “Please don’t interrupt me now. I need to focus.”
“Can I help?”
Oz transformed the finger into the halt sign while turning his gaze away and down. It was a move he used to convey that he was concentrating. He stayed that way for a dozen of her rapid heartbeats, then walked around the bookcase and out of sight into the room.
Sabrina gave the sleeping couple another glance. The sight made her heart heavy, but she hardened it and turned to follow her husband.
45
Oops
Western Nevada
THE ROOM Sabrina followed Oz into was obviously the study of a man who put a premium on having a grand place to work. Floor-to-high-ceiling bookcases and windows. An enormous matching oak desk. Classic oil paintings. It looked more like a gentlemen’s club than a mountain lodge.
Oz was already at the desk, clicking away at a laptop, doing something in the settings. At one point, he raised a fist in triumph, then pulled a red flash drive from its USB port and slipped it into his pocket. He shut the lid, pulled the power cord and set the assembly off to the side.
Looking over at her with triumph in his eyes, he asked, “Will you move the rest of this equipment into the cubby where we got the headsets while I make a call? I need to close down the office and get Omar and Shakira to Vegas.”
Sabrina understood the need to abandon their office, but she had no idea how Las Vegas figured into things. Certain that information would be forthcoming, she turned her attention to the remaining equipment.
It was fascinating.
The big monitor displayed an infrared image of the main room below. The people were pulsating silhouettes of red, orange, yellow and white, while the rest of the room was largely black. Mere minutes ago, she’d been one of those heat signatures.
It looked like everyone was crowding around the manual elevator, but as she studied the scene, enough people moved that she reassessed. They were gathered around a body on the floor. A motionless red and orange figure.
Did the lack of yellow and white mean he was dead? What had happened? Who was down? Had he collapsed—or been attacked?
Her ears tuned into the talk coming over the speaker just before Oz unplugged it. She’d grown so accustomed to the background chatter over the preceding days that her brain automatically filtered it out if she didn’t focus. She didn’t catch any words, but she grasped the tone, and it was panicked.
Oz yanked the cord and other plugs from the big screen and lifted it off the table. Sabrina grabbed a few of the smaller pieces and followed in a daze. Were they stealing the money? Could that be it? Was Oz so upset with the bankers that he was going to turn the tables on them? She wanted to ask but bit her lip. He would only get upset and snap without answering the question. Not because he was a cruel person, but because he got that way under pressure. She would know soon enough, anyway. She was, if nothing else, a patient person.
Oz set the equipment down in the hidden closet with all the grace he’d use depositing garbage by the curb. He then pointed to the dozens of white kitchen trash bags lined up neatly on card tables off to the side. “Find our belongings and set them over with the laptop. They’re going with us. The rest of the bags go into the closet.”
“All right.” That was an activity she understood.
“But don’t turn on your phone,” he added.
She was less clear about that, but would do as he asked.
Oz left the room and a second later Sabrina heard a door open and close. She went to work finding their stuff. It didn’t take long, in part because his phone was in the same bag as her purse. As she checked the contents, she heard a car start up followed by a quick engine rev. Then it turned off again.
Oz returned a few minutes later and helped her hide the last few bags. “Please finish up with the stuff on the desk while I deal with the card tables.”
She wasn’t sure why the card tables needed dealing with, but didn’t dwell on it.
Oz walked over to the big elevator and pulled what looked like a bent piece of wire from his back pocket. He slipped it through the hole at the top of the elevator door and began playing with it. “Achilles told me how these work, but I’ve never actually done it and—” Oz trailed off and then triumphantly pulled the elevator door aside. “There you have it.”
He also opened the second door.
Sabrina found it kind of creepy seeing that big black hole, knowing it led down to the cell where they might well have died. Where forty-six people were still waiting to be rescued.
Oz peered down into the gloom and muttered, “Far enough.”
She was about to ask him to clarify when he said, “Would you mind going to the kitchen to grab me a glass of water, with ice please?”
“Sure.” She could use a drink herself.
Sabrina filled two big artisan cups, the kind with tiny air bubbles trapped in the glass. As she entered the study, she caught sight of Oz pushing something across the floor. Had her eyes played a trick? She hurried around the bookcase in time to see him push it over the edge of the elevator shaft. Correction, push a woman over the edge.
A second later, Sabrina heard a terrible thud accompanied by a sickening crack. She brought both hands to her mouth as her knees went weak. “What did you just do?”
“Forget about it.”
“What did you just do?”
“I solved a problem.”
“You just killed our captors in cold blood. They were helpless. Completely in our control.”
“I’ll explain later.”
“You’ll explain now.”
Her husband almost snapped. She saw it in his eyes. But the anger faded as quickly as it rose. “Nobody can ever know about this place. Therefore, they need to be with the others.”
“What? But—” her eyes went to Katya and Achilles. “No!”
Oz grabbed Achilles by the heels.
“No, Oz! I forbid it!”
The thunderous look returned.
She moved to stand between Achilles and the open elevator shaft. Braced by nothing with her back to the abyss, a single step from the end of her life, Sabrina was scared. Even more scared than she’d been down below.
B
ut she wasn’t going to move.
Oz read the determination on her face. “All right. All right. We’ll stash him in the manual lift. Grab the door.”
She gave her husband a sideways glance.
“We’ll leave him alive. I promise.”
She walked over and opened the smaller door.
Oz grabbed Achilles by the ankles and dragged him inside, causing the bell to tinkle. Her husband struggled, given Achilles’ large size, but he eventually managed to stuff the former Olympian all the way into the tight space, albeit upside down.
“You’ll never get Katya in. Wait! You’re not going to—”
“No, I’m not,” Oz interjected.
He shut the elevator door and began turning the crank, counting off each revolution. At seven he stopped. He positioned the crank at the bottom of its rotation and abutted it with a metal rod that nested into the floor. To Sabrina’s relief, he then closed the freight elevator doors.
“What about Katya?” Sabrina asked, fearing the answer but needing to know.
“She’s coming with us.”
They were a half hour down the road with the bookcase closed and the front door locked before Sabrina realized what they’d done.
Or rather hadn’t.
The revelation sliced down the length of her spine like an icy sword.
Back in the house, she’d been completely caught up in the mystery of Oz’s actions. Then in the car, she’d been wholly absorbed by the implications of his revelation. Until that very second, her overtaxed mind hadn’t found the wherewithal to ponder anything that wasn’t right there in front of her face.
She turned to Oz and forced sound from her throat. “You didn’t forget. It was part of your plan.”
“Forget what?”
His tone told the tale but she spoke the words anyway. “To turn on the bunker’s power.”
PART 2: TURN
Chapter 46: Stuck
Location: Unknown
WHEN I REACHED for my neck in a subconscious attempt to ease the throbbing pain, the motion flipped some neural switch that brought the rest of my mind online. Consciousness then kicked in with the force of an electric chair. Memories and circumstances collided like troops combatting on an open field.
I had escaped captivity—but was back in the dark.
I had called the police—but was alone.
I was unbound—but upside down.
I knew what had happened—but had no memory of it. Somehow, our captors had regained control. They’d once again put their earphones on my head, thereby erasing my memory of the fight. But they hadn’t put me back in the bunker. At least not on the floor.
My legs were haphazardly propped up on one wall and my head was abutting another. It was akin to being in a vertical coffin. But of course, it wasn’t a coffin. And the contraption beneath one shoulder told me it wasn’t a closet either. It was the manual elevator.
I constricted myself like a cannonball and then rocked upright. The process caused something to scrape across the floor. I guessed what it was before my fingers closed around the spongy set of hemispheres. An anesthetizing headset.
The fact that it was there on the floor rather than wrapped around my head was a stroke of good fortune. Great fortune. Whether the headset had come off as my limp body slumped or was knocked off by some subconscious flailing, I’d never know. But the serendipitous shift had probably saved my life.
Or at least postponed my death.
I traced my hands around the two rectangular grooves in the floor, the manual pedals that confirmed my exact location. They were fixed in place. Just part of the floor.
I took a deep breath and began feeling around. Finding the lever didn’t take long. It was on the floor in the center of one side. I pushed it through its arc, then hopped atop the pedals. They moved—but not through a full rotation.
The gears were locked.
The steel bar was clearly back in place.
I considered crying out, but only for a second. Surprise might be my only advantage. Giving it away would be foolish. Besides, if anyone were able and inclined to help me, they’d be doing so already. Katya would see to that.
Katya…. Where was Katya? The last thing I remembered was turning the crank of this very lift. Sending it down to pick up the women. Somehow, while Oz and I were thus distracted, the villains had turned the tables. There must have been another man—or six.
I just couldn’t remember.
I began to study my would-be coffin. It was essentially five wooden panels—three walls with a ceiling and floor—attached to a steel frame. That frame was held adjacent to the concrete wall of the elevator shaft by steel rails that ran along two sides. The concrete that formed the fourth wall disappeared when the car aligned with either the upper or lower doorway. The whole construction was suspended by a counterweighted cable and raised or lowered by a chain attached to cranks and gears.
With that picture in mind, I asked myself the big question. The Houdini question. How to escape?
I inspected the crack between the edge of the car and the side of the shaft wall. The gap was only pinkie-finger thick.
I ran my hands over the walls as I tried to recall the image of the wood. I’d only glimpsed it briefly before sending it down for my sweetie. At the time, it didn’t strike me as anything fancy. It wasn’t polished hardwood like in an old hotel. My fingers completed the picture. It was plywood, sanded and stained. That was bad news. Plywood was tough stuff.
Since the surface of the shaft was undoubtedly the toughest sidewall, and the opposite side the only one that wasn’t braced by supporting rails, my first move was obvious. I braced my back on the concrete, lifted my legs parallel to the floor, and pressed.
Although I no longer cross-country ski competitively, my quadriceps remain overdeveloped from my Olympic training. Back in the day, on a seated leg press configured similarly to the way I was now, I worked out with a thousand pounds. I pictured Katya, worried and waiting, and pressed with everything I had. The metal creaked and the plywood flexed but nothing broke. My feet didn’t punch through the wood and the cab didn’t come off the rails.
I adjusted my position.
Since the depth of the box was too shallow to let my legs press with full force, I slid to the ground. There, I was able to get my knees right, but then the force vector didn’t hit the wood at a ninety-degree angle. I was applying more pressure, but less efficiently. The net result was a wash. It gained me nothing.
Despite all evidence, I was confident that I could defeat that wall if there proved to be no other way out. I simply would not be bested by a piece of wood. But I would likely blow a knee or disc in the process. Since I would be needing those parts after escaping, I sought an alternative.
In the dark.
A few deep breaths brought me to the conclusion that the floor was the weak link. Although I couldn’t think of another setting where that would be the case, it almost certainly applied here.
As any accomplished martial artist is well aware, the weak links on the human body are our joints. Our elbows, knees, wrists and especially our neck. Joints have lots of little parts and are much more susceptible to stress than larger, less-sophisticated anatomies.
The elevator had an equivalent construction. The pedals in the floor.
When one raised, the other lowered, as pedals always do. I moved them as far as possible and began a tactile exploration. Each pedal was surfaced with the same type of wood used in the rest of the box and measured about ten-by-twenty inches. Combined, they occupied a space of twenty inches square, big enough to accommodate two large feet spread shoulder distance apart. If I could remove both pedals along with the accompanying framework, I’d have a hole I could squeeze through.
My first impulse was to rip the pedals off their frames, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere. The frames themselves would block me. So I went to work feeling for the fasteners that held the system together. The good news was nuts and bolts appeared to be use
d in all the crucial places. The bad news was I had no tools.
I figured that if I could remove one piece, I might be able to use it as a tool. I just needed a bit of luck—and a weak link.
I didn’t find it.
Everything was too tight for soft flesh to budge. Even fingertips trained to grip rocks.
“Think, Achilles. Think!”
47
Unlocked and Loaded
Western Nevada
THE ANSWER to my tool problem was literally at my fingertips. The headset. If I was right, the instrument that imprisoned me would also set me free.
I needed metal, preferably stiff but bendable. With the aid of my teeth, I found exactly that beneath the foam and fabric padding of the headband.
I don’t know how long it took me to remove the bolts from the left side of the pedal assembly. So completely absorbed was I in the minute mechanics of the disassembly process, that it was like entering a temporal rift. The absolute darkness undoubtedly contributed to the effect that psychologists call flow.
Once I set the fourth and final nut aside, I rose and put my full weight on the mechanism.
It tilted.
I began bouncing with increasing force until the right half gave. Not completely, but hopefully enough for a highly motivated climber.
A few scrapes later, I wriggled past and ended up dangling from the distorted assembly. I had no idea how high up the shaft I was, but suspected it was somewhere in the middle. That would be the intuitive choice for stranding someone.
I climbed around to the far side of the central rail and began a controlled slide. I hit the top of the freight elevator a few feet later. As my second foot came to rest atop the cabin, it brushed against something soft and limp. Something that hadn’t been there during my initial climb. Something that sent a shiver down my spine.