The gate opened and the group passed through. They continued down the road, passing less than a dozen feet away from Quinn and Nate's position.
Once they'd gone by, Nate looked at Quinn, his eyebrows raised in a question.
Quinn nodded.
Without a word, they began to follow.
The elevator let Tucker out in a secure room at ground level. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, they were all concrete, and at least two feet thick, built to withstand a direct, pre–nuclear era attack. Of course, these days you wouldn't need an atomic bomb to do the job. A single bunker buster would destroy the whole facility.
Tucker pressed his palm against the security-release pad next to the door, and was greeted with the gentle whoosh of the lock releasing.
Tucker entered the main part of the structure. From the outside it looked like a small one-room cinderblock hut built in a small clearing between piles of boulders. Most people would mistake it for something left over from one of the handful of failed mines that were spread through the Alabama Hills.
Inside, there was another palm reader near the exterior door, and on the wall above it, a ten-inch television monitor. Tucker touched the power button on the monitor, and the feed from a camera mounted on the cabin's roof appeared. It provided a wide shot of the entire visible area in front of the cabin, and since it was in night vision mode, everything was in tones of green.
Tucker's men had just come out of the dry wash to the left and were seventy-five feet away, on the other side of the road. Tucker scanned the hills behind them. He didn't expect to see anyone, but he had a hard time believing their new guest had come alone. What he saw was rocks, and nothing else.
Tucker placed his palm on the reader. This time the sound was more a heavy click than a whoosh. He pulled the door open, but stayed in the shadows as his men closed the distance.
The prisoner was walking in the middle of the group, his head down. Not defeated, more like he was conserving his energy.
Thinks he'll be busting out of here, Tucker thought. But that wasn't going to happen.
Once everyone was inside, Tucker then led the way to the waiting elevator car. It was large enough to hold all of them with plenty of room to spare.
It wasn't until the doors shut that he turned to the prisoner.
"Look at me," Tucker said.
The prisoner didn't move.
One of the guards reached out and pushed the man's chin up so that Tucker could see his face.
"Who the fuck are you? And what are you doing on my land?" Tucker said.
The prisoner smiled like he was the smartest man in the room and had no interest in talking to any of them.
Tucker shook his head. "You don't want to mess with me."
The man let out a laugh.
Tucker counted to five, then punched the guy in the face, knocking him backward into the wall. He slumped down, blood pouring from his nose.
They left him there until the doors opened again.
"Put him in the room two doors down from the woman," Tucker said.
He stepped through the opening, then headed for his office. He'd let the bastard stew in his own blood for a while before he started the serious questioning. But he wouldn't wait too long.
He didn't want to let his own anger fade.
CHAPTER
29
QUINN AND NATE WATCHED FROM A DISTANCE AS the guards walked into what had to be the main entrance to Yellowhammer. Someone had been waiting for them just inside the door, but whoever it was remained in the shadows, unidentifiable.
Quinn knew if they were going to try to get inside, this wouldn't be the way. He examined the map Peter had sent them, then glanced up to get his bearings.
"We'll head for that hill over there," he whispered, pointing at a mound to the northwest.
"Should we check in?" Nate said.
Quinn shook his head. "It's fine. We'll let her sleep."
"We've been gone a long time. I'll bet she's not sleeping."
Nate was right. Knowing Orlando, she was still waiting up for them.
"I'll text her, okay?" Quinn said, annoyed.
"Fine. Okay. Whatever you want."
Quinn pulled out his phone and tapped in a quick message, then pressed Send.
Still on recon. All good. Get some sleep.
"Happy?" Quinn said to Nate.
"I'm always happy. I was just watching out for you."
Quinn stared at him for a moment, then broke away. "I'll lead."
There was no cinderblock hut covering the back door to Yellowhammer. There was no need. It had been built utilizing the existing entrance to a mine hidden by several boulders. Quinn only knew this because of a notation on the map. Finding the actual entrance was another story.
They fanned out, each taking a section of the hill that looked like the best bet. At first Quinn thought he'd come up dry. It was just more rock on rock. A glance over at Nate told him his apprentice was doing no better.
Quinn walked twenty feet up the slope and took another look around, not expecting much. But then his eyes stopped on a flat-top rock sticking out from the side of the hill.
He made his way over to it, half walking, half slipping across the gravelly surface. There was something about the surface of the rock. Some of the color along the top seemed odd, lighter.
Scrapes, he realized as he got close.
There were dozens of them, each leading toward the edge of the rock that hung out into the air. Something had been moved. Something big. He peered over the side. There, leaning against the scraped rock, was another slab.
"Over here," he called out.
Nate jogged over.
"That rock doesn't belong there," Quinn said. "I'd say it was up here not long ago."
"That thing must weigh over a ton," Nate said. "How the hell would they have moved it? Couldn't have just manhandled it."
"Helicopter," Quinn said. "The same way they get in here."
It was the only piece of machinery that would have been able to do the job, given the physical restrictions of the location. And once the job was done, the entrance would be sealed off.
"I hate to point this out," Nate said, "but we don't have one of those."
"We don't need it. We just need to move it enough to get in." Quinn pointed toward the right edge. "It's already leaning a little. We just need to help it along."
He pulled off his backpack and removed the twenty-foot piece of climbing rope he had coiled at the bottom.
"Slip this over the top. Then get up there and push the rock with your feet. I'll pull the rope. Careful you don't fall once it starts moving, though."
"Ha-ha," Nate said.
Once everything was in place, Quinn said, "On three. One. Two. Three."
He pulled as Nate pushed. At first nothing happened. He wondered if perhaps the rock was lodged in tighter than he had assumed.
"Again," he said.
Nate groaned. "Come on, you son of a—"
Then it moved. An inch at first, then two, then six. When it finally stopped, there was a gap three feet wide by almost five tall.
It wasn't until Nate came down and was helping him coil up the rope that Quinn realized he had made his apprentice push with his legs. Or leg rather. Nate's missing limb hadn't even occurred to him. And, he had to admit, it seemed not to have made a difference.
"You want me to lead, or you?" Nate asked as they pulled their packs back on.
"Have at it," Quinn said.
Nate smiled, then slipped into the newly created opening.
It looked at though it had been decades since anyone had used this route into the underground facility. Twenty feet in, there was a door all but rusted shut. But time had weakened the metal so much they were able to wrestle it open without breaking out any of their gear.
Using flashlights, they made their way down a set of stairs that had been cut into the earth, then covered with a layer of concrete that had long ago started to crack. The walls and ce
iling of the tunnel had also been reinforced, but weren't doing any better. There were patches where concrete had fallen and broken into pieces on the steps.
As they descended, the tunnel made a constant, gradual turn to the left, providing them no more than fifteen feet of forward visibility. So it was almost without warning that they reached the end of the tunnel.
"Where's the door?" Nate asked. The dead end was covered with more of the ancient concrete.
"We must have missed it," Quinn said.
"I didn't see one."
Quinn pushed by him and headed back up the tunnel. He swung his flashlight back and forth so he could get a good look at the walls on either side.
Nothing.
He continued on for fifty feet before turning back and making a second pass.
"Is it possible they never finished it?" Nate asked.
"It's finished," Quinn said. "Why else cover this end with the concrete? If they'd still been working on it and stopped, we'd be looking at raw earth."
"Maybe they covered it up when they decided not to finish it. Some sort of safety precaution."
The possibility rang truer than Quinn wanted to admit. But there was one other fact that negated it.
"Then why did someone block the entrance with the rock?" Quinn asked. "These guys are serious. They would have checked this tunnel first. If it was unfinished, they wouldn't have wasted the effort moving that slab in place."
He ran his flashlight over the end of the tunnel, then flipped it around and tapped the metal handle against the surface. There was a dull echo from the other side of the concrete.
"It's hollow," Nate said, surprised.
"Apparently."
"What do we have to do? Bust through? That won't be too subtle."
Quinn said nothing as he examined the surface. It was something near the edge where the end of the tunnel met the wall on the left that caused him to pause. He moved the beam of his flashlight closer, the circle of light condensing to a bright spot on the concrete. He then moved the beam up the wall a couple of feet, then tilted it down until it almost reached the floor before returning it to its original spot.
"What's this look like to you?" he asked.
Nate stepped over and looked at the illuminated surface.
"The crack?" he asked. "We've seen tons of them on the way down. Wait . . . are you thinking we might be able to push this in?"
Quinn moved the light upward again. "What about here?"
"Another crack."
Quinn shook his head. "Not another." He moved the light down the wall back to where he'd started. The crack was continuous, curving gradually toward the center as it traveled up.
"Let me see that," Nate said.
Quinn handed him the flashlight. Nate performed the same examination Quinn had a few moments before, looking both up and down the wall. The crack started near the floor and continued all the way up to an apex at the center of the tunnel's dead end before traveling back down to the floor near the other wall.
"What the hell?" Nate said. "A door?"
"That's what it looks like to me."
"But how do we open it?"
"Excellent question."
First they tried pushing on it, but it didn't budge.
"Maybe it can only be opened from the inside," Nate said.
A very distinct possibility, Quinn thought.
"Look for a release," Quinn said. "Something that you'd press or maybe step on."
They searched for five minutes but found nothing. Quinn stood staring at the wall, trying to think of another possibility. Twist the door like a dial? Doubtful. What if they needed to push the door at an exact spot? Perhaps, but . . . it didn't seem like the right answer, either.
Maybe Nate was right and the only way to open the door was from the other side. If that was the case, they were done here, and might as well figure out a way to get off the facility grounds without drawing attention.
Quinn's phone vibrated against his leg. He reached in and pulled it out. As he pressed his thumb against the screen to release the lock, he paused. His phone had rung in his pocket. They were a good fifty feet underground, and he shouldn't have been able to get a signal. There was only one reason he could think of that would explain it. The facility must have been wired with an antenna so cell phones could be used. Large businesses did it all the time, wiring their buildings so you could still get a signal in the elevator or while you were sitting on the toilet. Progress.
He looked at the name on the screen. Peter.
"You got my email?" Quinn asked.
"Yes. Where the hell are you?"
"Exactly where I told you we were going."
"Yellowhammer?" Peter asked.
"Yes."
"And that's where you took the picture?"
"Do you know him?"
"He . . . works with my client. His name is Kevin Furuta. He's CIA."
"CIA? What the hell is he doing here?"
Peter didn't answer.
"What's he doing here, Peter?" Quinn asked again.
"I'm not sure."
"How the hell did he even know about this place?"
"After you told me about your meeting with Primus, I informed my client. He must have thought it necessary to send Furuta in for a look. Probably figured he could get in and out before you even arrived."
"Pretty goddamn stupid, if you ask me," Quinn said.
"I don't disagree." There was a pause. "Do you think you can get him out?"
"Get him out? I don't even know if I can get in yet. And if I remember correctly, that's not my priority." But even as he said it, Quinn knew he'd do what he could.
Peter must have known it, too. "Keep me posted," he said, then hung up.
Before Quinn put the phone back in his pocket, he realized he had a text waiting. It was from Orlando and had been sent while Quinn and Nate had been searching for the back door entrance.
Where are you?
She knows, Quinn thought.
He typed in a quick response that implied they were in a safe position doing a basic recon. Her response was almost immediate, and confirmed his thoughts.
Bullshit
He put his phone back in his pocket. They could argue about his decision later; doing it now and by text would be counterproductive.
"Did I hear you say that guy was CIA?" Nate asked.
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