The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  Each attempt rattled the door and the lock. Sabot’s heart pounded, and his hands began to shake. What will they do if they catch us? He couldn’t help but wonder about the atrocities they’d inflict on him if they caught him trying to escape.

  The lock yielded to the fourth key. Sabot pulled on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, feeling panic start to swell. What if this is another cruel trick? What if this door doesn’t open?

  Fredericks nudged Sabot aside with a pudgy paw, then pushed on the door. It opened easily. Fredericks shook his head and smirked. Sabot felt sheepish.

  He followed Fredericks into a low, dank, dark hallway. It was concrete on all four sides. It was poorly lit, but Sabot could see that the hallway made the shape of an L.

  Their footfalls echoed. Sabot walked on his tiptoes, cursing Fredericks for his girth and clumsy gait. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “You’re going to get us caught.”

  Fredericks walked slower, but wasn’t appreciably quieter. Sabot’s anxiety grew as they neared a doorway on the left side of the hallway. He could see a small window cut into the door, with a metal flap covering it. The door had a number on it.

  Fredericks paused, crouched beneath the window, and moved his ear near the door to listen. He tried the handle. Locked.

  Sabot searched Zelaya’s key ring for the matching number, cursing every metallic ting that echoed in the concrete hallway as the keys jostled against each other. His hands shook. His nerves were shot.

  He produced the key, tried it in the lock, and opened the door.

  He shuddered. The room was familiar. It smelled musty, damp, and moldy. The bare concrete floor had small pools of stagnant water. The room contained nothing but a pair of wooden chairs, two chains attached to the wall, and a shower head. Jesus, maybe I didn’t imagine all of this.

  He turned to leave the room, more anxious than ever to find his way out, heart thumping loudly in his ears, legs shaky.

  Fredericks turned suddenly. He threw a large hand against Sabot’s sternum, shoving the smaller man violently backward. Sabot’s breath left his lungs in a whoosh. He stumbled backward into the cell, a look of shock and fear on his face. He opened his mouth to protest, but Fredericks clamped a hand around Sabot’s face, twisted his slight frame, and wrapped a large, fat arm around his torso. Sabot twisted and kicked, but Fredericks’ grip was just too strong.

  Sabot vaguely registered Fredericks closing the door to the cell, stopping the door’s travel just shy of the latch. “Stop,” Fredericks whispered into Sabot’s ear. “Stop struggling.”

  Then Sabot heard them. Footsteps, echoing from around the bend in the hallway. Guards.

  Sabot tried to relax. He held his breath and waited, certain that his pounding heart was audible for miles, feeling anxiety and dread build with each echoed footfall just beyond the door to the dank cell.

  Fredericks loosened his grip on Sabot’s mouth, but held the smaller man firmly against his chest.

  The footsteps slowed as they approached the door.

  Balls. All the other doors are completely closed. This one isn’t.

  Fredericks had the same thought. He clamped his hand tight against Sabot’s mouth again, tightened his second hand around Sabot’s torso, and hoisted the diminutive hacker off of the ground. An involuntary grunt threatened to escape Sabot’s windpipe, but Fredericks’ fat hand completely blocked his mouth and nose.

  The big man stepped to his left and whirled, Sabot’s legs flaying outward. Sabot saw the door begin to open, then felt Fredericks’ body halt abruptly as the big man flattened himself against the wall, just to the side of the doorway. Sabot’s feet dangled, suspended above the floor, as light from the hallway spilled through the now-open cell door. The guard’s deep, gruff voice said something in Spanish.

  We’re screwed. Sabot fought panic, fought the urge to charge, to fight, to go down swinging, at least. Fredericks’ arms clamped tighter around his body, and Sabot felt Fredericks’ hand smash harder into his face.

  More gruff Spanish. Out of the corner of his eye, Sabot saw a boot and part of a khaki-clad leg step into the cell from the hallway.

  He thought he might piss himself. I can’t do this any more. I can’t take any more bullshit. No more freezing faucets and illegible confessions and vicious blows to the head. No more guards’ footsteps on wet concrete, no more howling voices, no more messed up dreams, no more Zelaya. He was exhausted, done, scared witless, but ready to die fighting rather than subject himself to more prolonged abuse.

  He felt his body trembling, felt Fredericks’ grasp clamp down even tighter, felt his body’s overpowering urge to breathe, saw twinkling stars in his eyes as his brain exhausted its short supply of oxygen.

  Sabot’s vision closed in, and he could no longer see the guard’s leg. Jesus, is he inside the cell? He fought the nearly uncontrollable urge to shake himself free of Fredericks’ grasp. He was going to pass out.

  A deafening noise rang in his ears. His body jerked, and his legs kicked. He expected sharp pain, something horrible.

  But no pain came.

  It was the cell door slamming shut, he realized.

  Footfalls retreated down the long hallway.

  They hadn’t been caught.

  Fredericks’ grip on his face and body loosened. Sabot’s feet touched the concrete again, but his legs threatened not to support his body. Fredericks steadied him. “Who’s going to get us caught?” Fredericks whispered angrily as Sabot caught his breath and steadied himself against the wall. “You froze up. You gotta keep your head, man.”

  The fat man was right. Sabot had to keep his wits about him, or he’d never find Angie, never get the hell out of here.

  Wherever here was.

  “You good now?” Fredericks asked after a few moments.

  Sabot nodded. “I’ll follow you,” he said.

  “Damn right you will. I’m not getting caught again,” Fredericks said. “Open the door and let’s get out of here.”

  Sabot unlocked the cell door from the inside using Zelaya’s key. Fredericks led them out into the hallway.

  “We gotta check for the girls,” Sabot whispered as they approached the next cell door.

  Fredericks shook his head. “They’re gone, man.”

  “What if they’re not?” Sabot unlocked the cell and peered inside. Empty.

  He checked every chamber as they made their way down the L-shaped hallway, ignoring Fredericks’ growing impatience.

  The cells were all empty. Sabot’s heart sank.

  The last door on the left wasn’t a holding cell. It was a supply closet. Fredericks shoved Sabot inside, followed him in, and shut the door after him. “Look for anything useful,” he whispered, switching on the light.

  Sabot searched the shelves. There were dozens of plastic bottles. Bleach, muriatic acid, antifreeze. Sabot shuddered. What the hell do these animals use this stuff for?

  Fredericks found a crowbar and a box cutter. Sabot winced as the crowbar scraped on the shelf, metal on metal.

  Something caught Sabot’s eye on the shelf below. Something soft, out of place. Clothing.

  Women’s clothing.

  Angie’s clothing.

  His heart leapt to his throat. He snatched the shirt, held it open, held it to his nostrils. The scent spoke directly to the ancient part of his brain. Angie. There was no doubt. It was hers. Her pants were there too. And her underwear, bra, socks, and shoes. Tears streaked his cheeks. What have they done to you? So help me God, I will kill them with my bare hands.

  Sabot felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him. Fredericks. The look on the big man’s face said he understood. “There’s nothing we can do here,” he whispered. “This is their house. It’s no help to her if we’re chained to the wall.”

  Sabot nodded, numb, shaking with helpless rage.

  Fredericks led them out of the storage closet and back into the hallway. They arrived at the final door. Sabot found the right key. The door opened.

&
nbsp; What the hell? Was his mind playing tricks on him again? Was he dreaming? The door opened to yet another concrete cell. Shackles, chairs, and that damn shower faucet.

  “How do we get out of here?” They’d opened every door, found nothing but holding cells and a janitor’s closet.

  Sabot’s hands clinched. He felt adrenaline surge through his system yet again. What kind of a place has no exit? Where did those guards come from? How did I get in here in the first place?

  Fredericks looked flummoxed. The big man’s jowls jiggled as he looked around the cell, looking for anything resembling an exit or an opening. There was nothing of the sort. It was all solid concrete.

  They backed out into the hallway, scanning for any doors they’d missed earlier. Sabot looked at the numbers on each cell door. He was certain they’d searched them all.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Fredericks silenced him.

  Sabot heard the footsteps a second later. The guards were returning from the other end of the hallway. His ass clenched in fear.

  With surprising agility, Fredericks ducked back into the supply closet. Sabot followed. He shut the door behind him, twisting the handle to prevent the latch from clicking.

  Darkness. The closet door muffled the sounds of gruff voices and clicking boot heels. They were getting louder, closer.

  Sabot felt a whoosh of air. It was warm, damp. The sickly sweet smell of decomposing vegetation assaulted his nostrils. He swooned. I’ve got to be dreaming again.

  Fredericks’ hand clamped down on Sabot’s arm and dragged him forward. Sabot’s foot kicked hard against the bottom of the metal shelf. The metal scraped over the top of his toes, undoubtedly peeling a toenail backwards, his tennis shoes offering little protection. The pain was intense, but he made no sound.

  Fredericks pulled him harder, faster. He followed blindly, his eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. He took short, halting steps, afraid of stubbing his toes again.

  “Come on,” Fredericks hissed, still pulling him forward into the darkness.

  Shouldn’t they have reached the far end of the closet by now?

  The smell of vegetation was stronger, more pungent. The air was hot and muggy. The floor finally came into focus as Sabot’s pupils dilated in the dim light. It was dirt. So were the walls.

  A hallway. More like a mineshaft. Thick wooden beams held up the ceiling, held back the earth. Tree roots protruded from the floor and walls, threatening to trip him.

  The gruff Spanish conversation sounded behind them. The guards were following them.

  Fredericks tightened his grip on Sabot’s arm, pulling him forward into the earthen passageway. Can this be happening? The now-familiar feeling of surreality came again, and Sabot felt far away from himself, as if he were watching himself stumble forward into the darkness. We walked through a storage closet into a mineshaft?

  He began to feel claustrophobic, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Panic welled up again. He slowed his pace.

  Fredericks pulled him harder. Sabot stumbled forward. His injured foot caught on a root poking up from the floor. A groan of pain escaped his lips.

  The guards behind them stopped their conversation.

  They heard me. He had no idea how far back the guards were. And he had no idea how far he and Fredericks had walked.

  Suddenly, Fredericks jerked him hard to the right. He stumbled again, and Fredericks caught him. Sabot felt a hand on his head, pushing downward. “Duck,” Fredericks whispered. “Hands and knees. Follow me.”

  He crawled behind Fredericks. His head scraped against the roof of the tunnel. It was some sort of side shaft, only a few feet tall, branching off from the main earthen causeway.

  The guards’ footsteps grew louder. They were too close. Sabot stopped moving. The noise would give them away. He grabbed Fredericks’ foot in front of him, squeezing. Fredericks stopped crawling as well.

  They held their breath in the darkness. The guards drew closer.

  A flashlight beam played over the floor of the causeway, dancing toward him.

  The light reached Sabot. It stopped, lingering on his body.

  He felt abject fear. His bowels threatened to vacate. He felt trapped, completely vulnerable. How far was it to the mouth of the side tunnel? Could he make a dash for it?

  There was no way. He was going to be caught. He would end up back in one of those damned cages, chained underneath the cold water again.

  Hold it together. His pulse pounded in his head. Claustrophobia assaulted him, and he felt the walls crushing in around him.

  The footsteps grew quicker, louder, closer. The flashlight beam washed up his leg and settled on his chest, inches from his face.

  It was over. They’d found him. He was certain of it.

  An eternal moment passed. Sabot’s heart pounded, his muscles tensed, but he willed absolute stillness into his body. If he moved, he was dead. Hell, he was probably dead anyway.

  Then, the impossible happened. The light moved on. The footsteps receded into the distance. The gruff conversation returned, fading off into the distance, voices echoing through the small space.

  Sabot lay motionless, sweat pouring from his face, heart pounding. He felt nauseous.

  After a while, Fredericks crawled forward.

  Sabot followed. His body shook with the aftereffects of gallons of adrenaline slamming through his system.

  They crawled forever. His hands and knees sunk into the soft, fertile soil. Rotting vegetation stuck to him. He knocked his knee painfully against a protruding root.

  Then Fredericks stopped. Sabot heard him grunt, as if struggling against something. A metallic clang echoed through the small tunnel, and the creak of rusted hinges. Fredericks moved forward again, grunting, repositioning his fat body.

  Sabot crawled forward. He felt the air change above his head. He was out of the low tunnel.

  He looked up. Fredericks was standing over him, a fat hand held down to help Sabot up to his feet. Sabot took Fredericks’ hand, rose shakily, dusted himself off. He smelled gasoline.

  “Pay dirt,” Fredericks said, pointing.

  Sabot’s gaze followed Fredericks’ pudgy arm. He saw tires and handlebars.

  A motorcycle.

  29

  Sam awoke to the sound of the pilot’s voice announcing their imminent landing at DC’s Reagan International. Her neck was stiff, and she felt dried drool in the corner of her mouth. She ran her hand through her hair and grimaced, chagrined by how greasy and dirty she felt.

  How many days had it been since she’d slept in her own bed, or had a shower? She wasn’t sure. It felt like it had been a single, exceptionally long day since she’d chased down the giant wolf of a man who had broken into their house, shot and kidnapped Brock, and put her in the crosshairs of one of the world’s biggest assholes. They hadn’t even left the hospital after Brock’s harrowing rescue when the world’s economy shat itself, letting loose society’s nascent knuckleheads, necessitating Sam’s nonstop attention to find and stop the bastard du jour. Sabot Mondragon, God help you when I find you. You have seriously fucked up my week.

  Sam pulled the hair out of her face and looked out the aircraft window as they taxied from the runway. Airline traffic had resumed, but the passenger load was a tiny fraction of its pre-crisis level. She hadn’t seen the airport this quiet since 9/11.

  The jet taxied to a stop, the door opened, and an addled-looking junior DHS officer walked onto the plane. Sam recognized his face, but couldn’t conjure his name. “There’s a helicopter waiting for you,” he said.

  “For us?” Sam was incredulous. “Since when did I rate a helicopter?”

  “Since traffic is impassable, but more because the Director wants to see you.”

  “Shit.” Sam realized where she’d seen the guy. He was the DHS boss’ executive assistant. Fluffer, as Sam called him.

  “Right this way, please,” Fluffer said.

  Sam’s entourage barely fit inside the cramped helicopter. Th
ey lifted off from the executive ramp at Reagan, circled out over the Potomac, then headed west-northwest toward the Homeland edifice. Sam felt her stomach tighten. Why did she feel less anxious about chasing dangerous people in foreign countries than she felt about returning to the office?

  Maybe time for a change, she mused. She wasn’t exactly a team player at heart. Not that she had any subversive tendencies. She just never could force herself to drink the Kool-Aid.

  She looked at the streets. Sweet Jesus. DC’s major arteries were jammed with people. Crowds milled about at the periphery of town, but as they approached DC’s capitol region, Sam sensed a growing purposefulness. People weren’t standing around. They were marching. “What’s going on?” she asked Fluffer.

  “Demonstrations. They’ve been growing more intense for the past twelve hours.”

  “Why?”

  “There have been a couple of incidents. You haven’t seen them on TV?”

  Sam chuckled. “Haven’t had much leisure time lately.”

  “Violence. Some fatalities. The President has ordered a crackdown.”

  “Lethal force?”

  Fluffer nodded.

  Sam shook her head. Because that’s been so effective everywhere else on the planet we’ve tried it. Why was it that those in the position to make history were never its students? “Silly citizens. I don’t know why they’d mind their government shooting them in the streets.”

  Fluffer’s expression grew pained.

  True believer, Sam thought. She’d have to watch her step around this guy. Made sense, though — one didn’t usually get the “opportunity” to pucker up for the Director on a daily basis without demonstrating the proper political sensibilities.

  She sighed. Yet another indication that she and her employer were on divergent vectors, working toward different ends. She wanted to get rid of the world’s bastards. That was tough to do when there were a gaggle of them in her chain of command. She’d have to seriously reconsider her employment status. She’d already felt a little bit like she worked for a pre-fascist state, and that feeling had hit her long before the recent crisis and the nationwide crackdown that was apparently underway.