The Unwanted

by Brett Battles

  He only had seconds now. He squeezed through the opening and grabbed the rail that ran across the top of the door. The sliding sections closed again the moment he was out of the way.

  He could hear the steps come into the elevator alcove, then stop. There was a moment of nothing, then the sound of an electric motor starting somewhere below Quinn.

  Quinn looked behind him to see if he could tell which car was on its way up. But it was too dark.

  The sound got louder and louder. Quinn kept his eyes on the darkness below him, looking for any change, prepared to jump if the car appeared directly beneath him.

  The whir grew louder and louder. Then he saw the outline of a car moving up. Not below him, but next to him.

  The car stopped seven feet to his left. There was a slight delay, then he heard the door open and the waiting passenger get on. As soon as the doors closed again, the motor restarted, and the elevator plunged back down into the darkness.

  Quinn donned his backpack, then inched over to the pipes he'd spotted earlier, and attached the end of his rope to one of them. Once it was tied off, he cinched the loose end around his waist and began a controlled descent into the inky well below.

  "Quinn?"

  Marion looked up. Nate seemed to be talking to himself. When he noticed her, he said, "Radio." He turned his collar out so she could see the black dot attached on the inside. "Quinn?"

  "Maybe he's hiding and can't talk," she offered.

  Nate frowned. "Maybe. But he should have done a radio check by now."

  Before he could call out his friend's name again, there was a buzzing sound. He shot a hand into one of his pants pockets. When he pulled it back out, he was holding a vibrating cell phone.

  "Maybe his radio's not working and he's using his phone," she said.

  "It's not him," Nate said, looking at the display. He flipped it open. "Hi." He listened for a moment. "I'm in the emergency exit tunnel. . . . No. He went back in. . . . about fifteen minutes ago. . . . I can't get through. I think he can't get a signal on the second level. . . . There's a reason, a good one. . . . Wait, wait. Orlando, let me talk for a moment. . . . I didn't go with him because I'm not alone. We found Marion Dupuis. She's with me. . . . No, no kid. That's who he went back for . . . are you there? . . . Yes. Said if he didn't get back in a few hours, I was to try and get Marion out. . . . Where are you? . . . Jesus, you're as crazy as he is. . . . You need to watch out for the motion sensors. They go all along the road, then fan out in a wide arc as you near the gate. Maybe you should wait at the . . . Okay, okay. But you're not going to be able to get through the gate without them knowing. . . . What's that mean? . . . Orlando? . . . Orlando?" He pulled the phone away from his ear. "Shit."

  Orlando had been the name the other man, Quinn, had mentioned before he left. Marion assumed it was another member of their team.

  "What did your friend say?" Marion asked.

  Nate continued to stare at the ground for a few seconds longer before looking at her. "She's on her way to help us."

  "That's good, right?"

  He forced a smile, then turned and walked back down the tunnel toward the facility corridor. "Maybe I can get a signal if I go back into the hallway."

  "Don't. Please," she said. "I mean Quinn wanted us to wait here."

  Nate nodded. "All right. I'll give him another fifteen. If we don't hear from him by then, I'll go back in. That fair?"

  "Sure . . . yes. Very fair."

  It wasn't the fear of being discovered that had made Marion stop Nate. It was the fear that he might actually get ahold of Quinn. And when he did, Quinn would tell them that Iris was dead.

  At least this way, she could hold on to hope a little longer.

  CHAPTER

  34

  FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF TUCKER HAD PLAYED THE good boy, standing beside Mr. Rose as they both watched the others get the cargo ready. The technicians had started the job by prepping the solution that would put each package—as Mr. Rose had dubbed them early in the project—under for as long as would be needed, then administering it one by one. Tucker's men then moved the gurneys each package was on into one of the two storage rooms nearest the elevator.

  Tucker purposely didn't look at any of their faces. It wasn't because he was afraid of feeling a sudden rush of sympathy. In fact, quite the opposite would have been true. Their faces, their bodies, turned his stomach. They were just . . . wrong. He'd felt that way since he'd picked up the first one in Bangladesh two months earlier. Still, they were the key, the method in.

  But not the delivery device itself. That was also a stroke of genius. No one would suspect a thing. And when it was over, not only would the targets be eliminated, but the unwanted brats, too. The fact that Mr. Rose was using them in this way made perfect sense to Tucker. It was economical. No waste at all.

  After the cargo was in the storeroom, they packed up the remaining materials and wheeled everything on carts to the small trash incinerator at the far end of the second level. There could be no evidence left.

  "What time is it?" Mr. Rose asked as the last cart was wheeled down the hall.

  Tucker looked at his watch. "Eleven fifty-three."

  "They're running slow. This should have been done twenty-three minutes ago."

  "We're still ahead of schedule."

  Mr. Rose turned his laser eyes on Tucker. "That is not the point. Done by eleven-thirty was what we agreed to."

  Knowing it was useless to argue, Tucker said, "You're right. My apologies."

  "I don't want your apologies, Mr. Tucker. I want your efficiency. Tomorrow is a very important day. Everything must run smoothly."

  "It will. We've gone over it dozens of times. My men know what to do."

  "They'd better, because if something goes wrong and you somehow get away, I will find you. And I promise, I will not kill you."

  Despite himself, Tucker felt a shiver go down his back. He knew Mr. Rose had vast resources. Hell, he'd been able to assemble and pay for this operation in a matter of months. And it hadn't been cheap, not even close. Forget what he was paying everyone. The travel, the special equipment, Yellowhammer, it had all cost big-time.

  "I understand," Tucker said. "Everything will be fine."

  Mr. Rose stared at him for another several seconds, then said, "I want the helicopters in the air by one-thirty."

  "I thought the plan was to go at two."

  "One-thirty," Mr. Rose said.

  There was no need for Tucker to respond. Mr. Rose had already turned and walked away.

  Quinn had waited in the elevator shaft for forty-five minutes before he felt it was safe to sneak into the lower level. Even then, he'd been forced to duck into an unused office before he'd been able to get very far.

  Several people had gone by. There had also been the unmistakable sound of wheels rolling over the metal floor. Less than a minute later a second set of wheels passed his door. This went on for a quarter hour, with another cart each minute.

  The only time he heard any conversation was when the last cart passed by.

  ". . . of there. I don't want to leave anything for . . ."

  The voice trailed off, and was replaced by just under sixty seconds of silence before Quinn could hear the footsteps returning. It was the same pattern that had occurred every time. The cart would go by, and, soon after, footsteps would return on their own.

  But this time after the steps receded, no new cart wheeled past. Quinn waited several more moments, then opened the door just enough so that he could listen unimpeded.

  There were voices off to the left. Distant and indecipherable. He also thought he heard another cart. He waited to see if it might be headed in his direction, but it never grew closer. He opened the door wide enough to slip through, then stepped out into the corridor and looked to the left toward the noise. The majority of the facility was in that direction. Whatever Tucker's people were up to was going on in that area. Quinn was sure of it.

  It took him less than a second
to make his decision. Right first. See what they were doing with the carts. Maybe it would help explain what was going on. If not, he would have only lost a few minutes tops.

  He headed down the corridor. There were three doors between where he'd been hiding and the elevators. The first was another empty room like the one he'd been in. The second was the same again.

  But the third was different. Even though it was dark, Quinn could tell it was larger than the other two. He sensed depth. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He then pulled out his flashlight and turned it on.

  He started to move the light across the room, but he didn't get far before he froze.

  In the beam were two of the carts and part of a third. Not carts. Gurneys, like in a hospital, complete with an attached IV stand, plastic bag full of liquid, and a tube leading down to the distinctive form of a human being under a sheet.

  Holy shit, he thought.

  He started to move the light again, scanning the room. More gurneys, each with its own lump on top. He could see now there were straps holding each of the bodies in place. He counted seventeen total.

  He took a deep breath, then approached the nearest one.

  A head stuck out from under the sheet, lying on a pillow. A mop of brown hair hung down over the face. By its length Quinn guessed the person was female. He glanced at the sheet and watched it move up and down several times.

  Alive.

  But there was something about the person that seemed off. He moved the light from one to another of the nearby gurneys. They all looked similar. The bodies under the sheets were small, taking up little more than half a bed's length.

  Children.

  He played the light through the rest of the room.

  The same.

  The same.

  The same.

  On each gurney, the sleeping form of a child.

  "Oh, God," he said under his breath.

  He knew it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. He was looking for the girl who had been with Marion Dupuis, after all. But this was not what he'd expected. Not a room full of kids strapped to hospital beds.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and brought up the picture of Iris he'd seen on the passports Marion had left in Montreal. Then he began moving from bed to bed looking for the girl. But he didn't get too far before he noticed an even more disturbing pattern.

  None were the regular kids he'd see playing in the park, or clinging to their mothers at the sight of a stranger. These children were different. "Special," Quinn's mother would have called them. "Gifts from God."

  Three of the first five children he looked at had the unmistakable facial features of Down syndrome. He knew the look, had seen it himself as a kid in the face of his cousin. She was the "gift from God" his aunt had been given. Sarah. So sweet, so trusting. A bad heart had taken her life when she was just eleven. Quinn hadn't thought about her in years, and was surprised by the level of sadness he felt at the memory.

  Though the other two children did not look like they had Down's, it was obvious they had some other genetic affliction. Quinn continued through the room, going bed to bed. More disabled children. They all must be, he realized.

  What the hell was going on?

  A mix of anger and horror and compassion welled in his chest. It was all he could do to keep his feelings from taking over. He needed to remain objective and alert. He needed to figure—

  A noise to his right stopped him.

  It was only a few feet away. A moan, soft but pleading.

  Quinn turned toward it, his light sweeping over the nearby beds.

  The moan again.

  He zeroed in on it. A young boy, his half-open eyes squinting at the light, but still looking in Quinn's direction. Like just over half of the others he'd seen, he appeared to have Down's.

  As the boy moaned again, there was a movement under his sheet. A hand, Quinn guessed, trying to reach out but held in place by the strap.

  Quinn hesitated a moment, trying to keep his emotions in check. He was already halfway to the boy's bed before he realized he'd even moved.

  "Aaaa," the boy said.

  Quinn knelt down beside him.

  "Hey, buddy. It's okay," he said, then stroked the boy's hair. He wasn't sure if the kid understood him or not. Iris was from Côte d'Ivoire, so God knew where he was from. His pale skin meant he could have most likely come from Russia, any part of Europe, North America.

  "Mowno."

  The sheet moved again.

  Quinn reached over and slipped his hand under it, taking the boy's hand in his. "It's okay," Quinn said. "Go back to sleep."

  The boy smiled, his eyes continuing to look into Quinn's.

  "Sleep," Quinn said.

  "Aaaa mowno."

  Quinn gently rubbed the boy's hand. "Sleep," he whispered.

  The boy's eyes fluttered, then shut, before popping open again, his hand squeezing Quinn's as if he were afraid it wasn't there anymore.

  "Shhh. Sleep," Quinn repeated.

  Even though he knew the others could return at any moment and find him there, he stayed where he was for another five minutes, long after the boy had fallen asleep.

  There were four children with skin dark enough to indicate they might have come from Africa. But they were all boys. There was no sign of Iris.

  Quinn checked again, but the result was the same. No Iris. Not in this room anyway. There must have been another room with more children. The thought was at once comforting and disturbing. At least it would mean Iris might still be alive, but more sleeping children?

  He'd have to find out. But first he knew he was long overdue checking in with Nate. He toggled a switch in his pocket that changed his microphone from off to active.

  "Nate, can you read me?" he said. "Nate?"

  Nothing at all. He'd feared as much when he realized just how far this level was below the other.

  "Nate?" he said.

  Only silence.

  He pulled out his phone and was happy to see that the signal strength was as strong as it had been above. Whatever boost they had used on the first level must have also been implemented here.

  He was not surprised to see that he had several text messages. His phone was on silent, so he hadn't known they'd come in.

  Four of the messages were from Nate. One, though, was from Orlando. He read them in the order received.

  From Nate:

  10:23

  Checking in. Don't think we have radio sig.

  From Nate:

  10:47

  Everything all right? LMK

  From Nate:

  11:13

  Pls respond. Do U need help?

  From Orlando:

  11:33

  What the hell do you think UR doing going in alone?

  From Nate:

  11:49

  Assuming no signal, but just in case. Orlando's outside the