We went down the ladder, which led to a tunnel that seemed to run under the rest of the complex. Richardson's base had had subterranean tunnels too, but the layout of this one was unfamiliar. Callaghan may have modeled his latest base of operations off that of his old boss's, but he hadn't been so foolish as to recopy the blueprints in their entirety.
I wondered how he had gotten all the seawater in. A hydraulic pump of some kind? If we were by the ocean or near a bay, he would have a ready supply of water. He could be getting ready to flood these tunnels to flush us out like drowned rats. If he was rerouting the water from a nearby source, we were in trouble. Well — more trouble.
Save us, she'd said. Live.
Easier said than done.
There was a sudden sound. Heavy footfalls. The creak of leather. Guards. A small group on patrol. Not looking for us, just making rounds. I could tell the moment they'd spotted us. One immediately drew their weapon. I picked up speed and barreled into them, using my momentum to knock them over like a couple of human bowling pins.
I was expecting it to hurt. It did, but it also knocked all the wind out of my lungs, which I hadn't been prepared for. While I caught my breath, I was almost shot. With a curse, I managed to wrestle away one of their guns. I went for the smallest man, the one who had taken on the brunt of my attack. I shot him, point-blank. In the head. One of them tried to call for backup on his walkie. He got shot, too. The halls filled with the smell of blood.
The third guard had gotten away. I could hear his voice as he called for help. I fired a few warning shots in his direction, then shifted the gun to the other hand so I could grab Christina's wrist with the other. Couldn't risk any more shots. Sound traveled in the tunnels and the noise would attract more guards with more guns. Callaghan probably wouldn't order them to shoot to kill, but he might. By now, he undoubtedly knew that we'd escaped. These tunnels were being monitored by CCTV cameras. He could have been watching us right now. Just in case, I lifted my middle finger. Fuck you, asshole.
“I can't run any more,” Christina said. “It hurts.”
“We're almost there. It's not much further.”
I spied another set of metal rungs, leading upwards. Towards a grate. A way out.
I tugged on her arm, signaling her to stop. “Here. I'll go first. You hold this.” I handed her the gun. “Cover my back in case we get ambushed.”
She'd never liked guns. For the longest time, she'd refused to even learn how to use one. It was the last bastion of her us vs. them mindset. It was easy to tell yourself you weren't a killer if you didn't pull the trigger yourself. But I had taken that from her, too.
I expected her to refuse, but she just nodded tiredly and said, in a small voice, “Okay.”
I climbed up the rungs. The gate was rusted shut, and stuck when I tried to turn it. I clenched my teeth, steeled my arms, and gave a firm, sharp twist. With a screech, it opened, and I let out my breath.
Sunlight poured in through the gap. My eyes watered. I pushed the grate out and set it aside, peering out slowly. I was eye-level with the blades of grass surrounding the hole.
This must have been the maintenance entrance. Callaghan hadn't marched us this way, and I didn't recognize the buildings surrounding us.
There weren't any guards around, yet. They would be on their way soon, though. That one had gotten away to call for help, and Callaghan's vague threats about punishing those who he considered nuisances or failures would ensure that they arrived quickly. I did not envy the men and women who were supposed to have secured the silo in the first place. Their fates would be unpleasant.
“Michael?” Christina's voice floated up to my ears. “Are you all right? Is it…safe?”
“For the moment.” Staying low, I crawled the rest of the way out and knelt down beside the opening. “Keep quiet and give me your hand.”
She stumbled a bit, collapsing in the grass with a rustling sound beside me. I reached out my hand to steady her, and she handed me the gun instead.
“After the tunnel, this is downright balmy.” Her chattering teeth rendered her voice shaky and thin.
I wasn't feeling very warm, either. Our damp clothes did nothing to keep out the cold breeze. The sun would set soon. Once the temperature started falling, it would fall fast, and get a whole lot colder.
We headed in the opposite direction from Callaghan's compound. Too bad he'd blindfolded us when he brought us here. It would have been nice to know what direction we'd come here from.
He's thought of everything.
Except securing the silo. Which was odd, if he had wanted to kill us. Why make escape so easy? A handful of guards in the tunnel, and then no guards at all surrounding the exit? I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into a trap.
He had tricked me like this before, once. When he'd kidnapped Christina three years ago and held her, waiting for me to come and find her, just to prove a point. The guards I'd had to fight to get to her had gone down way too easily, but in my arrogance I had chalked it up to skill.
“This is too easy,” Christina said. She was pale and shaking as she looked at me. “It's too quiet.”
“That's because we're probably walking right into a trap.” We came to a tall building, surrounded by trees. I craned my neck upwards and slapped my knee. “Well, I'll be damned. We found the chopper. It's the fucking chopper that brought us here.”
“I bet that's the trap,” she said.
I grinned at her, and something about my smile must have spooked her, because she took a step back. All my frustration, and helplessness, and anger had turned to mania, and the burn of it filled me with a burst of energy that made me feel heady. “I don't know about you, darlin, but I'm real tired of being fucked with. We're going to steal that helicopter and I will kill anyone who gets in our way.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Flight
Michael
I had been trained to fly a helicopter years ago, but only as a pretense. All recruits had to pass various tests as part of their training. We were not always held to those standards. Case in point, piloting a helicopter. I hadn't been behind the wheel since.
The sound of bullets was like a deadly timer. Fuck. I had minutes. The IMA were hot on our tail, and I couldn't remember a damn thing.
Christina was still standing, her face betraying all her doubts. “Sit down,” I shouted, “and strap yourself in.”
She sank into the heavy leather seat, fumbling for her seat belt. I closed the door but not before I heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal carapace. This hulking scrapheap was military grade, meant to withstand bombs and shit. But those guns were military grade, too, and I was certain they contained propellants.
“You ever fly one of these before?” Christina asked nervously.
“Once,” I admitted. “A long, long time ago.”
She crossed herself — something I hadn't seen her do in at least a year. I couldn't blame her. I wasn't a God-fearing man myself, but if I was I might have done the same. As I looked at the control panel, my mind was a total fucking blank.
Many people think the interior controls of a helicopter look like a car's interior. The are nothing alike. To the left of the seat is the collective and the throttle. The pilot straddles the cyclic, which looks like a giant joystick and causes the chopper to pitch or roll. They don't change the direction the nose points; the anti-torque pedals on the floor do that.
Maybe I remembered more than I thought. Was it enough to get us off the ground?
Another bullet struck the metal plating. That decided me. Trying was better than waiting around for Callaghan to recapture us both. I repressed a shudder, knowing Christina was watching me, needing me to be brave. But I was still sore from what he'd done to me. My ass fucking burned, and the only thing worse than the pain and the violation was the fucking guilt. Like I hadn't fought hard enough to prevent this — all of this.
But thinking that way was an indulgence I couldn't afford. If I sat here feeling sorry
for myself, we'd never get off the ground. I rubbed at my arm and grimaced. I had a wound on my left shoulder that was already red with infection. Helicopters are made for the right-handed, like so many other things in this world, so I was making do with my right at the moment, but it throbbed painfully despite the care I took to keep that arm still. I didn't even remember him inflicting that wound, but all things considered, maybe that wasn't so surprising.
Focus, Michael.
Having the IMA shooting at us wasn't helping me to recall any of this information. I twisted the throttle and the blades came to life with a roaring whir. Yes. I pulled the collective back, slowly, forcing myself to keep my movements small and gentle despite my growing sense of urgency.
“Yes,” I shouted, “take that you fuckers.”
“We're going up,” Christina shouted, sounding relieved. I barely heard her, but nodded.
“Hold on to something,” I warned. “This is gonna be rough. We're going in dry.”
I depressed the left pedal fairly hard, and then the right when it started to veer too far to the left. My shirt stuck to my armpits as I reached for the cyclic. I was sweating like a whore in church. Blinking it away as it dripped into my eyes. Jesus, it had been a long time. All my minor cuts and scrapes awakened, and began screaming all at once.
I moved the cyclic forward to get us going and the chopper shuddered violently. I remembered this from the training, vaguely. Effective transitional lift. My instructor had been the brainy type Big on physics. His explanation involved something about a wind bubble, turbulence, torque. I'd pretty much tuned him out. A wonder it was coming back now.
Christina screamed, and I saw her flounder to grip the armrest in a choke hold. “Cut that out,” I said. “It's normal. Just keep your seat belt buckled and you'll be fine.”
Hovering is the most difficult aspect to grasp about flying a helicopter, because it requires a careful balance of all three control interfaces. In some ways, flying the damn thing is easier because it's more similar to flying a fixed-wing aircraft, like an airplane.
Not that I'd flown one of those, either.
I was getting an instinctive feel for the controls now. Really, it was all about balance, preventing the tail from swinging too far to the left or the right, keeping the nose level, and, of course, maintaining proper RPM of the blades. It wasn't as automatic or mindless as driving a car, but this was doable. We might even get away.
And then what?
Both of us were injured, badly. This time we wouldn't be able to retreat somewhere quiet to lick our wounds in silence. I'd used up a lot of my contacts in the medical field. There are only so many times you can come in with the injuries I contracted and not elicit questions. Dangerous questions. The types of questions that make people disappear. The world's oldest and most lucrative magic trick.
Of course, there's only so many times you can do that, either.
I glanced briefly at Christina, who was staring out the window. The bastard's new base had been out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees for miles. The fuel tank was only half full — it had been used recently, might have even been the one that brought us to this godforsaken place — and the pilot obviously hadn't felt the need for a refill. We might very well run out before we happened upon civilization, and I didn't like to think about what might happen then.
“How are you doing over there?”
She turned. “Just as bad as I look.”
“I'll kill him for what he did. I promise.”
“That doesn't undo the damage.” She blinked back tears. “He still raped us. Tortured us. Killed people that mattered to us. Killing him might stop him, but it won't undo what he did.”
“That's true.” This was a terrible conversation to shout over the sound of a helicopter's blades. “It won't. And that's something people find out the hard way when they hire his men to do their dirty work. Killing someone doesn't stop the bad feelings inside.”
“It just stops the person,” she said. “It stops more from being created.”
“That's what killing is. The ultimate cease and desist letter.”
She was quiet for a while. I didn't mind. It gave me time to think, and to pilot the helicopter without distraction. The sun was setting now, burnishing the trees in a liquid, fiery gold. It reminded me that moment before an explosion, when everything turns red hot as the pressure of the heat is milliseconds from imploding in on itself and then bursting outwards like a bursting, thermonuclear overripe melon.
“You were right about my weaknesses,” she said suddenly. “He saw them as clear as day.”
It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about. Then I remembered — that whispered conversation — that moment when I had tried to scare her away, to keep her from getting mixed up in what I saw all too clearly for the suicide mission that it was.
“You're not implying you deserved it or any shit like that, are you?”
“Of course I don't think I deserved it!” She sounded furious, which was reassuring. “Nobody deserves that. He was wrong about one thing, though.”
“What?”
“He thought he could make me hate myself. I hate that the memory of what he did to me is still in my skin. I hate that I lost so easily. But I don't hate myself — I hate him.”
I hoped that was true. But in the face of so much trauma, she might be resorting to all sorts of cognitive defense mechanisms to help cope with what she had experienced. I worried that the self-blame might begin later. I worried that it might trigger unpleasant memories of me — if it hadn't already.
“You go on and hate the son of a bitch, then,” I said. “It'll help us focus on killing him.”
Christina
Michael had never mentioned that he could fly a helicopter. It cemented the realization that my knowledge of this man was as shallow as mirror: everything I knew about him was just a reflection of what he had deigned to tell me.
I closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes next my clothing was no longer quite as damp and the sky outside was as black as pitch.
“We're almost out of fuel,” Michael said. “We have to land somewhere, and soon.”
Something on the helicopter's display bleeped.
“Someone wants to play.”
I craned my neck to look out the window. I couldn't see anything at first — and then I did. A sleek, shark-like aircraft that was painted a dark, stormy gray that blended in with the sky.
“What is it?”
“Probably a drone.”
“Nobody's flying it?”
“That would defeat the purpose. That aircraft can go down in flames as long as it takes us down with it.” Michael gave a bitter smile. “Remote piloting has its perks. It eliminates the need for a kamikaze pilot.”
A terrible, chemical odor filled the air. I knew we had been hit before the alarms even went off. We were losing altitude. The helicopter pitched forward violently and I found myself holding onto the armrests for dear life. All I could smell was smoke and leaking fuel as the control panel began flashing a violent, epileptic red.
“Michael,” I wailed. But I don't think he could hear me over the alarms.
The crash shook my world, and threatened to shatter me like brittle glass. For a moment, I couldn't move. I was paralyzed with shock. I took inventory of my injuries, which had all been jostled into a sudden, immediate ache that sparked through me like a blazing fuse in the confusion.
I unbuckled myself from the confines of my seat belt, moving slowly, bracing myself for any injuries to my neck and spine. I felt fine, but sometimes those kinds of injuries can take a while to manifest themselves even though the damage has already been done.
“Michael?” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he tensed, whipping around to look at me. “Are you all right?” I asked him. My voice sounded too loud in the abrupt quiet that followed in the absence of the roar from the rotating blades. My ears felt as though they had been packed with cotton,
and his response was very faint as he said, “Yeah. For now.”
Michael tried to open the door but the shape of it had warped upon impact. He rammed it with his shoulder, and the look of pain on his face as he did so was so terrible that I begged him to stop.
“No.” His voice was tight with restraint. “This thing's a fucking death trap.”
The door swung open with a rusty creak. Michael tumbled out and I crawled over the seats to join him, wincing at the pain that licked at my thighs with every move. I took his face in my hands and kissed him fiercely, desperately; he tasted like blood and sweat. He stayed very still, and I took a step back, watching him carefully. “I'm sorry,” I said shakily. “I just wanted — ”
What? What did I want?
Michael jerked his head at the smoking heap, motes of dust and dirt illuminated by the one searchlight that still pierced the darkness.
“They may have been controlling that remotely, but they still had to be within range. And now that they know we're down, they'll be looking for us. We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
My mouth tasted like copper. I swallowed hard and nodded. “Will it blow up?”
Michael laughed — a hoarse bark that made it sound as though he were in pain. “If vehicles blew up as easily as they do in the movies, we'd all be fucking dead. No, darlin, it won't blow up. It might collapse, or catch fire, but it's not going to blow up.”
He waited a moment, giving me time to catch up. I grabbed onto his arm, as much to steady myself as to keep us from getting separated. It was so dark out here. No lights, just stars. The glare of the helicopter's unwavering light had blinded me, and it took a long time, well after the wreckage left our sight, before my eyes adjusted.
The woods smelled overwhelmingly of pine. There was a vibrant sense of life that asserted its presence everywhere, all around us, from the rustling in the bushes to the dewy smell of fresh earth. I had never felt more removed from the world — and that was a terrifying notion.
“It's getting cold.” The rags they'd dressed me in did nothing to ward off the chill, and my clothes were still slightly damp. I clung tighter to him. “We'll freeze.”
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 28