“However, Serum B was able to shut down the lateral orbitofrontal cortex while stimulating the hypogastric and pudendal nerves, as well as suppress some function of the cerebellum which I’m as yet unable to discern.”
The floor began to crumble beneath Max’s feet. A yawning chasm unzipped down the hall, swallowing the linoleum and ancient wooden floorboards in its path. Max pressed his back against the wall and grasped for handholds that weren’t there. He clenched his eyes shut as the roar of falling debris grew louder. It’s not real, it’s not real—
“This ‘witch’s brew’ combination triggered a euphoric response accompanied by the subject’s ejaculation while he maintained a nontrivial level of consciousness. Very promising.”
Max took a blind step forward. His foot landed on solid ground. Opening his eyes, he saw the hallway as it was now—old, cracked, and scuffed, but intact.
“Still too many unknowns to definitively declare success, not without running many more trials. I shall attempt to replicate these results on subject fourteen, if I’m able to procure her in a timely manner. Unfortunately, my present situation forces me to temporarily put my work on hold as I must move my equipment and subjects to another location.”
Finally, Max reached the stairs. Gripping the handrail with white knuckles, he descended one step at a time. Lucien’s voice faded into a menacing drone behind him, words like a swarm of wasps with poison-dripping stingers at Max’s back. On the final step his legs gave way and he slammed face-first into a concrete floor. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, tasting blood in his mouth from a split lip. A huge room sprawled in front of him with rows of pallets stacked on top of each other nearly to the ceiling. Some kind of warehouse. The lights flickered, and he heard quick footsteps. From around a corner maybe a hundred feet away, five silhouettes emerged, crying as they ran for their lives. Max blinked and they faded to smoke. A glimpse of something to come. Something soon.
He struggled to stand on legs made of rubber, sweating despite a chill that gripped him to the core. The wasp droning behind him stopped. He was nearly out of time. Max shambled forward, as close to a run as he could muster, toward where the silhouettes had appeared. Eyes scanning for an exit, he turned the corner and saw five large metal shipping containers embedded in a row of pallets. Past the containers the corridor ended at one of the building’s outer edges. If he followed the wall, it would eventually lead him to a door to the outside. All he had to do was get there.
As he shuffled past the containers, he heard it. Crying. Max stopped. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? He heard it again, coming from the red container on the end. Lucien would soon find Max missing and scour the warehouse, claim back the prize he’d worked too hard to leave without. But Max couldn’t escape if it meant leaving other people behind to suffer like he’d suffered, like Margaret had suffered.
Keenly aware of every second he stayed exposed, he approached the container, certain now of someone crying within its metal walls. He pushed up on the latch’s long handle as his body begged him to sit down, rest, maybe take a quick nap. After what felt like a Herculean effort, the bar holding the door closed shifted up, and the latch released. Max used what was left of his strength to swing the metal door open.
The smell hit him first—bleach, so strong he nearly gagged. A woman lay on a metal table, clad in a hospital gown, as Max had been. She lifted her head and squinted at the bright light, eyes red and wet from crying.
“Help me,” she begged when she recognized Max wasn’t Lucien. She jerked her arms and legs against the straps holding her down. “Help me!”
Max hurried to her and fiddled with the straps, his lame left hand hindering his ability to manipulate the buckle with any skill.
“Hurry, hurry, oh God,” she said, saucer-sized eyes darting back and forth between Max and the door.
Wrinkles overtook her young face, not from age but wear. Her skin sallowed, her teeth yellowing as her eyes sank into her face. Then her body went still and a police officer draped a sheet over her body, a needle still in her arm—
“Wake up!” she shrieked at him.
Max jumped and blinked at the woman, her face still young, smooth, and terrified. Another hallucination of the future. Bad times ahead for the poor girl.
He loosened her strap enough so she could yank her hand out the rest of the way. She tore into her other hand’s strap. With frenetic speed she undid all her remaining restraints and leapt off the table, sprinting out of the container in a near panic. Obviously whatever drugs Lucien gave her hadn’t resulted in the terrible weakness afflicting Max.
“Wait!” Max called after her. He slouched against the metal wall, his legs trembling with the effort to stay on his feet. “The other containers…You have to open them. There could be more people inside. I can’t do it myself.”
She stopped and spun in a strange circle for a moment, as if physically warring with herself over whether to run for it or spare a few precious seconds saving others.
“Please,” he said, “I’ll give you money, lots of money.”
She stopped and looked at him, seemed to recognize who he was, that he was serious. The appeal of a windfall overrode her survival instincts—so much for using something other than my money to solve problems—and she ran to the shipping containers and unlatched all the doors in a fraction of the time it’d taken him. Max dragged himself to the next closest container and unbuckled the straps of an Asian man with hollowed cheeks and pallid skin. He looked like he’d been there awhile.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said over and over as Max worked his wrists and ankles free. He slid off the table and stumbled a step; weak, though not as weak as Max. “Mark!” he called as he pushed past.
Back in the corridor, the soon-to-be-rich woman had been joined by the Asian man and three more people, another man and two women, all in matching hospital gowns. The two men embraced each other in a tight, heartfelt hug.
Lilies decorated the archway of the gazebo where the two men, both in tuxes, held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes as a modest crowd looked on.
Mark’s voice trembled as he spoke. “Jin, you were my reason for living when I thought I couldn’t go on anymore. I heard your voice on the other side of that metal wall, and I knew everything would be all right. Not only did you save my life then, you save it every day now. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you.”
Mark slipped a ring on Jin’s finger. With tears in their eyes, they kissed. The crowd cheered—
“What are you doing?” Jin pulled on Max’s arm. “Stop clapping and come on!”
The gazebo was gone, replaced by the warehouse. He shook his head. Back to reality. Keep it together, Max.
“This way!” a woman yelled to the group, as if she knew a quicker way out than following the wall. They rushed ahead, in the same direction the silhouettes had gone. Max tried to keep up, but his legs refused to move faster than a slow walk. Jin glanced behind him, noticed Max trailing, and doubled back.
“Hurry—”
Jin’s face erupted in terror as Max felt an arm like steel clamp around his neck and jerk him backward.
Lucien. Shit.
A gunshot right next to Max’s ear nearly deafened him. A pallet a foot away from Jin exploded where a bullet struck the side. Jin cried out and ducked. For half a second his eyes held Max’s, wanting to help, knowing he couldn’t. He turned and sprinted out of sight.
“Merde,” Lucien said.
Max struggled against Lucien’s hold, but it was useless. He could barely stand, let alone fight.
“Look what you have done!” Lucien said through clenched teeth. “All of my work, ruined! No time to clean up properly. We must leave now.”
Lucien dragged Max down the corridor, toward some kind of egress route, away from freedom, away from Val, to live out the rest of his life as a lab rat.
Chapter Thirty-two
Westford Warehouse Number 4 sat two blocks away from Ha
rbor Island’s busy piers, packed among a row of similar-looking bland buildings with no windows. Heavy rain battered the windshield of Val’s car where she sat parked half a block away. Through smears of water she could make out the faint glow of light under a heavy rolling door in the front.
She looked at Ginger in her passenger seat, arms and legs bound by duct tape. “Who’s in there besides Lucien?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“You should know because you own the building, idiot.”
“I don’t go in there.”
“Oh that’s right, I forgot—you’re an incompetent man-child leeching off Daddy’s money, so why would you bother to learn any aspect of a job you’re supposed to be responsible for?”
He gritted his teeth and fumed in his seat, but said nothing. Probably didn’t want to get punched in the face again. She had to admit her antagonism of him was a little juvenile, but damn if it didn’t feel good. Val itched to go in with guns blazing, a course of action she knew Max wouldn’t approve of. He’d want her to think it through, come up with a plan that involved stealth or subterfuge or cunning. Or better yet, call the police.
Val called the police.
“Seattle Police Department. How may I direct your call?”
“I’ve got information on the whereabouts of Lucien Christophe.”
“Hold, please.” After thirty seconds a different man’s voice came on the line. “This is Detective Belden.”
“I know where Lucien Christophe is.”
“Okay.” He sounded oddly disinterested. “Who am I speaking to?”
“I’d like to remain anonymous.”
“Uh-huh. And where do you think Christophe is?”
“I don’t think, I know. He’s at the Westford Warehouse Number Four, on Harbor Island. He’s keeping people prisoner here. It’s where he kept Margaret Monroe before he murdered her.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dammit, she sounded like a loon. Detective Belden’s bored responses suggested he agreed.
“Can you just come, please? At least send someone to check it out. Someone with a gun.”
“We will head out there as soon as possible, ma’am.”
“When will that be?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Why not now?”
Detective Belden sighed. “Because you’re the fourth person to call within the last hour with a tip on Christophe. It’s in the queue.”
“Like how Margaret Monroe’s disappearance was in your missing persons queue?”
A couple of seconds of chilly silence followed. “We take every tip seriously, ma’am, which is why it takes time to investigate them all. We will be at the”—he paused, probably to look at his slapdash notes—“Westford Warehouse Number Four as soon as possible. Thank you for the information. Is there anything else you’d like to report?”
Val mashed the disconnect icon on her phone. Goddamn police. Cringing a little, she called Sten. She wanted to stay as far away from him as possible, but she was quickly running out of options. She’d never be rid of him at this rate.
The line rang and rang. It clicked over to his voice mail.
“If you’re a hot chick, leave a message. If you’re the boyfriend of a hot chick, wrong number.” Beep.
“For the record, that’s one of the most obnoxious voice mail greetings I’ve ever heard. And I’m at the Westford Warehouse Number Four on Harbor Island. It’s where Lucien is hiding, and where he’s been taking people to perform sick experiments on them. He’s got Max, and I need…Listen, I’ll give you whatever you want, or…be whatever you want, okay? Anything. Just please…Please—Forget it.” She hung up and shook her head. “Fuck.”
Stacey wasn’t coming. No one was coming. It was up to her, and her alone, to get Max out of that building alive. To hell with her visions. To hell with fate. To hell with everyone and everything that stood in her way. Valentine Shepherd was an avenging angel, and the time for retribution was now.
From the passenger seat Ginger sneered. “Out of friends?”
Val considered punching him again, but had a better idea. She returned his sneer. “Nah. I’ve got you.”
The smile wiped off his face.
Five minutes later, Val stood in the rain next to the driver’s side door with a football-sized rock in her arms. She’d moved the car into an adjacent dark lot, its headlights turned off and pointing at the building about fifty feet from the rolling door. Ginger eyed the rock with wide eyes. He made muffled grunts of disapproval through the duct tape Val had slapped over his mouth. With the parking brake on, Val slipped the car into drive. Then she wedged the rock onto the accelerator. The engine revved, straining against the brake like a wild horse tethered to a post. Ginger’s eyes somehow got wider, his grunts more frantic as he shook his head at her.
She’d put a seatbelt around him. He’d probably live.
“Ride the lightning, Eugene.”
Eugene: “Nnnnn nnnnn!”
Val reached in and popped the brake. The tires skidded in place for a second before the car bucked forward. She watched it pick up speed, the driver’s side door dangling open as it went, until it crashed into the building at maybe thirty miles an hour. Her good old car kept trying to go, its wheels spinning against the slick pavement, the horn stuck on and blaring. Poor thing. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain this to her insurance company. She’d think of a feasible lie later.
Val swiped water off her face, drew her gun, and raced to the other side of the building, careful to dodge big puddles and stay in the shadows. From around the corner, she saw the rolling door slide up. Light poured forth into inky wet blackness, the silhouettes of two people cut into the glow. They took cautious steps outside, toward the crashed car, hands on their hips—on their guns. Security forces. A simple warehouse would make due with a lock and an alarm system. These boys must’ve been hired by Lucien as his private muscle, probably a smaller contingent of the same guys at the Mountain Lodge event. If Lucien really was keeping kidnap victims in the warehouse, he wouldn’t want a bunch of possible witnesses hanging around. That only two guards had emerged, and not an army, was a good sign. She hoped.
Staying light on her toes and holding her breath, Val snuck toward the open door as the two men moved away from her. They threw open the passenger side door as Val reached the lip of the building’s bright hole. Ginger’s muffled shrieks poured out. He’d lived. Really, he’d just die slower. Congrats to him.
“Well, he’s obviously not the one shooting,” Val heard one of the men say to the other, no idea what they referred to.
“I told you it came from inside the warehouse, not out here.”
“Then what the hell is this…”
She leaned her head into the light and peaked around the corner. A plastic table covered in snacks and magazines stood a few feet away, flanked by a couple of metal folding chairs. Beyond those, short stacks of palletized goods, then tall stacks of palletized goods, formed neat rows through the belly of the warehouse. But in her visions of Lucien dragging Max away, she’d been in a concrete corridor with metal doors—
“Hey!”
Val snapped her head toward the guards. She met their eyes. Shit. They saw her gun, then raised theirs.
“Put it down!”
She wasn’t about to give up now. Val lunged forward, into the building’s mouth. Gunshots rang out, whizzing through the air a few inches behind her. She reached a short stack of pallets and skidded to a halt behind it, breathing hard.
She pushed wet hair out of her face. “Do you know who you’re working for?” she yelled behind her. It was possible they didn’t, if they went through a middleman. “You’re protecting Lucien Christophe, wanted by the police for murder. You wanna go down with him?”
She heard feet shuffling toward both sides of her, boxing her in.
“Put the gun down, come out, and we’ll talk.”
Val wasn’t sure if they’d shot at her with the intention of hitt
ing her or only as a warning. Either way, they weren’t on her side. Her gaze cast about the warehouse for any clues to where Max could be. A concrete corridor with metal doors—
Movement on Val’s left caught her eye. They’d almost flanked her. She let loose a bullet ten feet above one of the guards, then spun and did the same thing to her right. They retreated behind her, though she knew they wouldn’t stay back for more than a few seconds. She needed to move.
Val sprinted to the next stack of pallets. Two more bullets cut through the air, only missing their target because the men had been in the act of backing up when she ran. She heard their careful footsteps approaching again.
Then she saw the sign on the far wall with an arrow pointing to the right: “Cold Storage.” A concrete corridor with metal doors that opened into freezers. That’s where Max was.
It was too far from her pallet to the next. They’d shoot her for sure. She was trapped.
I have no choice, I have to try. Just run. Just—
Wait—did she hear screaming and weeping sounds, coming from in front of her? A group of five people in hospital gowns burst into view from behind one of the tall pallet stacks. Panicked and huddled together, they ran toward the open door Val had come through. When they saw the guards, they slowed and erupted into a cacophony of frantic shouts, yelling on top of one another.
“Don’t shoot!”
“Help us!”
“I’m not going back! You’ll have to kill me first!”
When the shouting wasn’t met with a volley of gunfire, Val chanced a look around the corner and saw the guards gawking at the group, their guns still out but pointed at the ground, unsure what to do. They weren’t homicidal henchmen after all, just a couple of guys trying to do their job. Beyond the guards, through the open door, flashing lights approached. Police cruisers, at least three of them. The guards glanced behind them as sirens became audible.
“Aw, hell,” one of the guards said. “Screw this.” He holstered his gun. The group in hospital gowns rushed past them and out the door, eager to embrace the police.
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