by S. D. Perry
It was impressive, forty feet high and big enough to fit a house into, with multiple entrances at the floor and higher— open holes dotted the walls, ledges leading between some of them. Mitchell counted eleven openings in all, facing every direction, climbing all the way to the ceiling—a warren of partially collapsed tunnels, arching patches of holes small and large; dozens or hundreds of bats nestled in the cracks and flitted through the shadows there, disappearing into the broken passages.
She had come in from southwest right at the floor, which pulsed with its blanket of insects, rolling humps and puddles and black-and-white between the scattered stalagmites. She saw six of the blind lizards at the far side of the chamber, stationed at a long stretch of water that curved along the east wall. Salamanders, she decided. Lizards had scales, salamanders were the ones that stayed near water. They didn’t approach her or move from the pool, only chirping and listening.
At the southern curve of the chamber wall, the stone had eroded away into layers, creating natural steps that ran up to well past the room’s midpoint, perhaps thirty feet up. They weren’t symmetrical or flat but there were angles to climb, cover to be had in the passages they touched.
Get as high as you can. Croft would be heading up. Even if she didn’t come through here, Mitchell was counting on hearing her attempt to make her ascent, and wanted to be in a position to pursue as needed.
Mitchell dimmed her light and moved to the south wall, stepping around stone stumps and columns, sliding her feet into the teeming masses of insects so as not to crunch them. Fat roaches scuttled over her boots, trying to climb her, perhaps drawn to the smell of blood. She continued to seep from all of her injuries and she’d stopped trying to swallow, her chin slicked with bloody drool. Her body’s infirmities annoyed her. She’d started shivering involuntarily, as well, short bursts of uncontrollable shaking that came and went at random. If she didn’t meet with Lara soon, she might be forced to retreat—not to concede, but to defer to biological considerations. Mitchell’s will was indomitable but the flesh was weak. She couldn’t determine not to get hypothermia.
I won’t go yet, though. Mitchell wouldn’t leave before taking a final shot, the magical third. She was connected with Croft, bound to her by their shared commitment to craft. It was so very rare, to find another who danced where others plodded. So rare, in fact, that Mitchell had been starting to believe that she was entirely alone. She cared about the quality of her work, she invested herself, but never saw her efforts matched by the blank stupid faces that surrounded her. Lara Croft gave her hope.
She started climbing, stopping often to listen for any approach, covering her light to watch for a hint of another’s. A few rocks clattered somewhere south, near where the Glock had fired. Harper. Was he lost, or did he have reason to believe that Croft was in front of him? Either was possible. He didn’t deserve to kill her, although Mitchell understood how badly he must want to by now. Damon Harper was persistent, if nothing else, and didn’t give up.
She had to pause in her climb, struck by another attack of shaking—
—and she heard something from the northern wall, north and west. A brief whisper of something soft, perhaps fabric brushing against rock. It was very close, and higher than the floor.
There were two passages the sound could have come from, ragged holes one above the other, at an angle where the chamber curved, a little below and across from Mitchell’s position. A ledge staggered off the lower tunnel’s lip, ending about ten feet off the floor.
Mitchell was fifteen feet up, give or take. The nearest solid cover was a passage about ten feet ahead of her and up, or she could drop back to the last hole she’d passed.
She’ll come in quiet and dark but when she decides it’s safe, she’ll turn on a light. You don’t need to hide, only aim.
Likely true, but that was also the kind of thinking that had probably felled Ace and Hux—the absolute belief that only they were doing the hunting.
Two steps ahead of Mitchell, one of the layered steps flared away from the wall. There was barely room to crouch, it wasn’t a good position to defend, but it was something. She carefully turned off her lamp and hugged the rocks, inching to where she felt the edge of stone rise up.
Her hip was bleeding again from the climb, a warm seep, not enough to touch the deep cold at her core, but her hand was steady. She raised the semi and waited.
* * *
Lara had to stuff herself through a crack to reach what she was sure was an antechamber to a much larger room. She could hear the sounds of an active cave ahead with a large number of bats, which definitely meant access to the higher tunnels—maybe she could get back to the central well, maybe not, but she had let go of the idea that she would be out quickly. She thought Rasputin had fired the shots she’d heard, which meant she knew where he was— but Mitchell was still lurking around somewhere, and she was a pro at the quiet game. Lara hadn’t seen the Russian again, either.
She stopped to listen outside a short tunnel that led into the larger room, killing her light. The chamber was big, tall and wide. She estimated that she was well off the floor, three or four meters. She heard the susurrus of bats and bugs, punctuated by a few salamander chirps, down and off to the left—
—and she heard the dull click of a switch, a small, mechanical, plastic sound.
South, straight across, up a bit.
Lara tilted her head, straining to hear beneath the whisper of the cavern’s life… and was that movement, the careful slide of a body pressed against rock? She could be imagining it, but she hadn’t dreamed up the click of the switch.
Somebody heard you coming.
She couldn’t walk in blind; she might step off a drop. Flare? She’d have to get right up to the opening to throw it. At the climb, she’d been shielded by rocks and Rasputin hadn’t been expecting her. Whoever was in the cavern, they were waiting for her to step inside.
Retreat was the safest course, but she had to go up somewhere… And if she snuck away, they would follow or get ahead of her again, set up and wait. Her policy of running from these people was over.
They’ll be watching for the light. And they’re wearing vests.
Lara quietly took off her pack, taking out rope, cutting a healthy length. She unbuckled her helmet, then slid the axe from her belt, setting the helmet on the narrow axe head. She used the rope to secure the helmet as best she could, looping through openings in the lining and tying it to the axe’s shaft. It wasn’t especially sturdy but it didn’t wobble too badly, either.
She shaded the lamp, then lightly smeared mud across the bulbs before slinging her bow and taking out the Remington.
This is going to go fast.
Lara turned on the light and then held the axe at arm’s length. She moved into the passage, tilting the dim light down like she was watching her feet, and edged forward.
She couldn’t see into the dark that opened in front of her but kept the .45 trained south, her entire body in play, her muscles working to keep the helmet steady, to hold the gun steady, to move forward and keep her balance. There was a ledge at the front of the passage and she crept toward it, letting her gaze relax, not fixed on any single point, extending the axe as far away from her as possible—
—and there was an explosion of light and sound, the axe ripped out of her hand as a dark, slender shape opened fire from the wall south, four shots.
Rock sprayed up behind Lara. The salamanders screamed and Lara saw Mitchell’s eyes in the stutter of light, wide and triumphant in a mask of caked mud, her throat wrapped with a strip of black cloth, strings of mud-soaked hair plastered to her head.
Lara fired twice, aiming for the woman’s belly, low, then ducked back into the passage.
A large number of bats had taken flight at the first shots, and as their passage faded Lara heard Mitchell gasping— and then a stumble of movement on the rocks, and then silence. The salamanders huffed for a moment, three, four of them, but stayed on the east side of the
chamber.
Lara quietly edged forward again, and picked up the axe. The helmet had been knocked sideways and hung from the rope, the lamp still functional, but the shaft of the axe had been hit, the hollow metal dented and torn.
She held out the makeshift decoy, waited, but the cave had gone back to its hum.
Lara put down the axe and took out her hand torch, holding it away from her before flicking it on—
—and saw Mitchell lying on a walkway of angled steps that ran up the south wall, blood pouring from her belly. When the light touched her, Mitchell raised her nine-millimeter, her hand shaking, and emptied it.
Lara dove from the ledge. The rounds were mostly wild but one of them pinged across the zipper of her backpack as she landed on the cave floor, throwing herself into a roll.
She came up and dodged behind a thick stalagmite, beetles and spiders falling off her back. She crossed the torch under the Remington and ducked around the rock, finding Mitchell—but the woman’s bare, muddy arm had sagged to the rocks where she sprawled, and her finger was tight on a dead trigger, her semi’s slide locked. Blood continued to pulse from her gut but it was slowing.
“Clever Lara,” Mitchell called, almost fondly, blood dribbling from her swollen mouth, her voice rasping. Her body shook, her skin deathly pale beneath the heavy smears of mud, streaked with red. “When I die, the entire world will disappear… except for you, I think.”
Mitchell exhaled heavily and didn’t inhale again. Her gray eyes stayed open.
Lara quickly looked around the room, the woman’s strange last words still hanging in the chill air. There were half a dozen salamanders by a pool at the chamber’s east wall, agitated but staying close to the water; another spawning ground, presumably. She ran the beam up the walls, looking at the openings, at the ceiling. She could go up the rocks past where Mitchell’s body lay, take the highest passage she could reach and—
She heard footsteps coming from the south, Rasputin’s limp more pronounced than before but approaching quickly.
Lara stepped back behind the formation and turned off her light, pressing tightly against the damp rock, ignoring her initial inclination to turn and walk out.
The fast hobble slowed as Rasputin approached the chamber, and she saw the faintest smudge of light in an opening at one o’clock some meters away, rounded rocks framing a dull yellow glow.
He stopped, breathing heavily, making no effort to be quiet, which made sense when he raised his voice and started talking.
* * *
Harper heard the first shots just as he’d managed to climb up a short but torturous slope and through a wide crack that opened into a north–south tunnel. The sound of Mitchell’s Czech gun was sharp, north and maybe a bit east of him, and he started running, jaw clenched against the pain of his leg, a snarling red glee twisting through him. Croft fired back, but after a short pause he heard the CZ again. Mitchell was alive and well and taking another run at the target, and he was close enough to join in.
After the echoes of the last shots spun away, he could still hear the huffing cries of lizards. He came to a branch in the passage and followed the sound. Mitchell had fired the last shots, and at the thought of Croft dead his worry about getting out of the tunnels was overridden by a sudden hope that he wasn’t too late to see the bitch breathe her last.
He reached a tunnel that curved east and realized he could hear his limping steps echoing back at him over the subsiding chirps of the lizards. He had arrived.
Harper stopped before the passage’s turn, listening. Cave noise. No footsteps, no obvious sounds of movement. Were one or both of them dead? Had they left?
They’re close enough to hear you.
“Mitchell, report,” Harper called, and waited, his voice circling back at him.
Lizard chirps and crawling pestilence. Nothing.
Had Croft gotten to Mitchell? Where were they?
Make a deal. He should have done it at the climb, but had been too furious to think about bargaining, too committed to seeing Croft struck down.
“We have Jonah,” Harper called, the words reverberating through the cold air. “And your pilot, Miguel. Walk out with me now, and I’ll let them go.”
He heard her. A tiny shift of clumsy movement, a scrape of sound.
She was close, only a curve of rock and he estimated less than fifty feet between them, somewhere to his left, southwest. He spoke calmly, with authority. “My name is Harper, this is my team. There’s no way you can get out of this, but Jonah can. Miguel can. Agree to surrender and I’ll let them go. On my Oath.”
Bugs crawled and bats cheeped and his voice whispered away in musical canons. She didn’t answer. He imagined her weighing his sincerity. He’d admitted that her own life wasn’t up for debate, a fact that she would have gathered already, thereby establishing that he was truthful. And he had given her an opening to pursue negotiations over terms of surrender, which was far more than she deserved. Croft thought nothing of murder, but had gone to great lengths to protect her own friends. He was counting on her loyalty, and on her assuming that his system of honor was the same as hers. People under duress still tried to connect.
He looked at his watch in the weakening yellowish light from his helmet.
“They have orders to kill the hostages in twenty-two minutes, if I’m not there to advise differently,” he called with absolute confidence. A bluff to tip the scales, and to remind her of who actually stood to lose here. “Even if you beat me to the exit, my people are watching the drop. You still have to climb up; you won’t have time to stage a rescue before Jonah and Miguel run out of time. And I swear to you, if I have to chase you, you will all die.”
Nothing… and then a sound like something heavy sliding, followed by an impact that cut through the rustle of the cavern like a dull hammer—to his immediate right, east, and falling from over his head. One of the salamanders let out a short shriek, a blast of ugly sound.
Body. The thump was like a side of beef hitting the ground from off a roof. Dead meat.
A trick? An accident? He turned off his light and stepped around the bend in the passage, forcing himself to use his bad leg, to walk without making a sound. He leaned into the cold open space, scanning—
—and saw a firefly of pale light, high and to his right. Someone climbing along the rocky wall.
He raised the Glock and fired.
* * *
Lara climbed while Rasputin—Harper—talked, using the echoes of his pompous voice for cover, quickly ascending the stone steps on the southern wall. She’d started walking as soon as she’d made the small sound, kicking at the stalagmite with the toe of her boot, quietly moving towards him and east. It was obvious he couldn’t see into the cavern; he kept his voice focused in the wrong direction while she passed directly in front of his tunnel, stepping lightly between the bases of the formations, avoiding the crunch of tiny exoskeletons.
The ascent was an easy one, angled lengths of limestone cutting into the wall, but she had to stretch her legs to get up some of them. Keeping the .45 handy meant one-arming it for the most part, but she was fast and the few sounds she made were covered by Harper and the hiss of the bugs… until she got to Mitchell’s sprawled body, the woman’s blood slicking the stone.
Harper had stopped talking and Lara was in a hurry, the tunnel she wanted still a short climb ahead. Mitchell was half on her side, blank gray eyes staring at the void, blocking the stretch of rocks almost entirely. Both of Lara’s shots had hit just beneath the hem of Mitchell’s vest; there was a lot of blood.
Lara edged past her, setting her foot down in a narrow space behind the small of Mitchell’s back. Her boot came down on blood-wet rock and she skidded into the dead woman’s legs, rolling one of them off of the narrow ledge.
The dead weight pulled Mitchell to the floor, the sound heavy and unmistakable. And Lara was still three meters away from the arch in the rock that she’d hoped to reach and disappear into before Harper realized he wa
s talking to thin air.
A salamander cried and Lara threw herself upward, kicking off from the rock, scrambling. Harper would come in, she knew he would, the second he realized she wasn’t where he thought. He had a tunnel to duck back into, but she was absolutely in the line of fire.
Get there! She leapt for the last pitch before the opening, boosted herself up, walking her boots up the steep slope—
The first round whizzed past her left ear before the roar of his Glock tore through the chamber. Lara threw herself flat and slid back a meter, slamming her arm down over the light and switching the .45 to her left hand as more rounds tore over her head, pinging off the rocks.
She turned her head and saw him fire again, still too high, his narrow head and one broad shoulder outlined in the white flare from his weapon, his body pressed to the wall.
An internal conversation happened in the time it took her to mark him, a millisecond of yammering.
Take the shot!
Miss and he’ll see you!
Don’t miss!
Lara rolled onto her hip and fired: three rounds at his torso, two more at his face.
Harper cried out, falling back a step, and Lara clambered up, climbing from the memory of what the last pitch had looked like. She dove for the opening in the dark as another round hit the rock, banging her right shoulder against the lip of the rock before she was inside.
“You bitch!” he screamed, and fired again, the rounds blasting the stones just past her feet.
Lara shook out her LED and held it out. A low tunnel that bent south and east. She was on her feet and walking before the echoes of the last rounds died.
A dim light snapped on in the chamber below her, the beam wavering, playing over the southern wall—and she heard him start to climb, grunts of exertion and pain, his breath hissing through his teeth.
Wait. Pick him off when he’s at one of the steep spots. With a bad leg, the climb would take him a few minutes.
And if he’d told the truth about the deadline? You have to get to the drop now, whether Harper’s dead or not.