The Excoms

by Brett Battles

  After she finished eating, she spent a half hour stretching, her body still sore and stiff, and then lay down on the bed. Somewhere in the middle of thinking about a job she’d done the previous fall, she dozed off for about twenty minutes, the normal length of one of her catnaps.

  She yawned, sat up, and froze.

  The door to her room was wide open.

  She peered through the doorway. The subdued lighting on the other side kept her from being able to determine how big the room was. She could see only that the space right outside her room was empty.

  Slowly, she approached the door, increasing her view of the room outside, but it remained unoccupied.

  This is just plain weird.

  Though logically she knew no one would be waiting to jump her since she was already a prisoner, she tensed as she stepped across the threshold. Of course, nothing happened. She was the only person in what turned out to be a wide, circular room.

  Eleven other doors identical to hers were spread around the space in groups of three. Hers was the only one open. Between each group was an open entrance to what appeared to be a hallway. Three of them were dark, but the fourth was not only brightly lit, it also had a line of undulating LED lights embedded in the floor, rippling inward.

  She stepped over to the closed door just left of hers. A chest-high, heavy metal bar lay across it, secured in place by an electronic lock.

  She knocked. “Anyone in there?”

  Not a peep from inside.

  Maybe she was the only prisoner. For a second she considered checking the other doors, but screw that, she thought. She wouldn’t learn anything from someone who’d also been locked up. What she needed was a jailer.

  She checked the dark hallway entrance closest to her, and found it went only ten feet before being walled off by a temporary-looking metal wall.

  She skipped the other two dark entrances, entered the lit hallway, half expecting a wall to open up into a Rube Goldberg killing machine that she’d have thirty seconds to defeat to keep from dying. Thankfully, the walls remained walls, and the only killing was going on in her head as she imagined what she was going to do to those who’d taken her prisoner.

  She followed the moving LEDs down the hall. She passed several exits along the way, but all were blocked off by the same kind of metal wall she’d seen in the dark hallway. About fifty feet in, the hall took an elbow turn to the left, went on for another thirty feet or so before it and the rippling lights stopped at a set of double doors.

  Feeling like a fish on a hook, she contemplated going back to her cell, but there were no answers there, so with extreme reluctance, she pulled one of the doors open and looked inside.

  If she had created a list of the kind of spaces she expected to find, a conference room would not have even made the cut. But that’s exactly what was on the other side of the doorway. Dominating the center of the space was a large rectangular table surrounded by five chairs—one directly in front of her, and two on each side. Like in her cell, there were no windows or additional exits.

  She stepped onto the threshold and held the door wide while she looked around, but she was the only one there. As she moved the rest of the way in, she reached around for the handle on the back of the door to keep it open, but there was no handle. The door slammed shut before she could grab it. Annoyed, she searched along the edges for enough surface to pull on, but everything fit together too well.

  She looked back into the room.

  “Crap.”

  __________

  DYLAN SHOT THROUGH the open cell doorway the moment he realized he was no longer locked in, and paused in the circular room just long enough for a quick look around. The second he spotted the lit corridor, he ran to it.

  He didn’t care if he was being led somewhere or not. In fact, he didn’t even give it a thought. The only thing important to him was finding a way out.

  When he reached the double doors at the end, he yanked them open and rushed in. Unfortunately, he had not anticipated finding furniture in the middle of his path. While he avoided the chair at the end of the table, he could not avoid the table itself, and slammed belly first into the edge.

  Clutching his gut, he stumbled backward, groaning, and was completely unprepared when someone flew into him and knocked him to the ground.

  He yelled out as he hit the floor. Hands on his shoulders rolled him onto his back, and before he could react, a woman who looked like a tall Thandie Newton straddled his aching stomach, pressed her hands against his shoulders, and tucked her legs back so her feet hooked around his thighs.

  Lowering her face until it was only a few inches from his, she growled, “How do I get out of here?”

  “I’m having a hard time…breathing. Can you let up a little?”

  His request garnered him the exact opposite of what he wanted. “Answer the question.”

  “How…the hell…would…I…know?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding me here?”

  “You think I—”

  “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah…but…but…”

  “Answer me!”

  “I can’t…I’m not…holding you…I’m the…one…who’s…being held.”

  Uncertainty rippled through her eyes. She eased up on his torso enough for him to catch his breath. “Held where?”

  “In a damn cell for I don’t know how long,” he said, his voice strained by the fact she was still on top of him. “I wake up and the door’s open. So I decided to try to find a way out, and then you body-slam me like we’re starring in WrestleMania. I’m not the one who needs to answer questions. You are.”

  “Maybe you’re saying that just to trick me.”

  “Oh, for chrissake. Think what you want. But can you do it someplace that’s not on top of me?”

  __________

  ROSARIO SEARCHED EVERY inch of the round room before she ventured into the lit hallway.

  Her most interesting finds were the two other open doors that led into cells identical to hers. From the crumpled bedding, it was clear both had been recently occupied.

  She entered the hallway and inched along, alert for any sounds. Each time she came to one of the doorways covered by metal drop-down walls, she placed her ear against it. Not once did she hear anything on the other side.

  When she did the same upon reaching the double doors, she heard a rhythmic squeak.

  She eased the door toward her until the gap was wide enough to step through. Before she could—

  “Don’t let it shut!” The shout came from a tall woman standing beside a long table in the center of the room. Sitting on the opposite side was a man twirling in a chair that squeaked every few seconds.

  When the woman started moving toward her, Rosario pulled back into the hallway and started to shut the door.

  “No!” the woman yelled, halting. “Please, don’t lock us in here.”

  Rosario stopped, but stayed ready to shove the door closed if anyone made a wrong move. “Who are you?”

  “If you’re hoping to get a name out of her, good luck to you,” the man said, his accent Irish. “She’s not much for sharing. I’m Dylan. Dylan Brody.”

  “Did you just come out of one of the cells?” the woman asked.

  Rosario kept her expression blank and said nothing.

  “I was the first one out,” the woman said. “About thirty minutes ago. This idiot stumbled in here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Literally,” the man tossed in.

  “And now you.” The woman motioned toward the table. “Five chairs. If the pattern holds, someone else will show up in another fifteen minutes, and someone else another fifteen after that.”

  “Why?” Rosario asked.

  The man grunted a laugh. “Ain’t that the question of the afternoon? Or evening. Hell, or morning. Do either of you know what time it is?”

  Rosario looked back and forth between Dylan and the woman.
“So it’s just the two of you? You haven’t seen anyone else?”

  “Just you,” the woman said.

  Rosario eyed them for a moment, and then glanced at the inside of the door. No handle.

  “Either of you have something we can jam this open with?” she asked.

  Her question seemed to relax the woman.

  “Use one of your shoes,” Dylan said.

  “I’d rather use one of yours,” Rosario countered.

  “Ha! I don’t think so. I’ll hold on to both of mine if you don’t—”

  “Give her a shoe,” the woman said.

  “Why me?”

  “Did your mother not teach you any manners?”

  Dylan groaned, pulled off one of his shoes, and tossed it toward the open door. “There you go. Everyone happy?”

  Rosario opened the door all the way and jammed the toe of the shoe under it until the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Hey now,” Dylan said, rising from his chair. “I still gotta wear that.”

  Rosario cautiously walked into the room, stopping several feet from the other woman. Petite to begin with, Rosario felt like a hobbit next to her. There had to be at least a twenty-centimeter difference between them and who knew how many kilos.

  “I didn’t get your name,” Rosario said.

  “And I didn’t get yours.”

  They looked at each other, eyes locked, neither willing to go first.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Dylan said. “You’re worse than the boys back at school.”

  As if they’d been practicing it for hours, Rosario and the woman simultaneously said, “Shut up, Dylan.”

  The corner of the woman’s mouth ticked up. “Ananke,” she said, holding out a hand.

  After a pause, Rosario took it. “Rosario.”

  __________

  LIESEL SAW THE open door as soon as she woke and knew it had not been left open by accident. Therefore, walking through it would be doing her captor’s bidding.

  She had no idea why she had been brought here or what her captors’ intentions might be. But she did know she wasn’t going to do anything to make their lives easy, so she sat cross-legged on the bed and proceeded to meditate.

  At some point, the whistle blared from the speaker in the ceiling again, and then sounded off a third time a few minutes after that, but she was so deep in her nothingness that the intrusions were barely noted.

  The footsteps, however? Those she did hear.

  __________

  A RESONATING WHISTLE like the one that had initially woken Ananke screamed through the propped-open doorway into the conference room.

  “Sounds like another guest just got up,” Dylan said.

  Ananke frowned. “A whistle didn’t wake me this time.”

  “Me, neither,” Rosario said.

  “Come to think of it, I also didn’t hear one,” Dylan said.

  Ananke walked over to the doorway and peered down the hall. A moment later, Rosario and Dylan joined her.

  “Taking their time, aren’t they?” Dylan said.

  Rosario turned and studied him for a second. “You like to talk.”

  Though it obviously wasn’t a compliment, Dylan beamed. “Well, I am Irish.”

  The whistle went off again.

  Ananke exchanged a look with Rosario. “Perhaps someone should check it out.” She turned to Dylan.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “I was thinking more that you could stay here in case someone else shows up.”

  “Alone? I don’t think so. I think it’s better if we all stick together for now, don’t you?”

  “He has a point,” Rosario said.

  They headed down the hall, Ananke first and then Rosario and finally, a few steps behind, Dylan.

  “Not sure this is such a good idea,” Dylan whispered.

  Ananke turned to tell him to be quiet, but saw that a glare from Rosario had already taken care of the problem.

  They paused at the entrance to the round room. Four doors were open now. Ananke pointed at her cell, and then at herself. Rosario indicated which was hers, and Dylan nodded toward his.

  That left only the open door at their two o’clock unaccounted for.

  Ananke mimed what she thought they should do. Rosario considered it, and then nodded. Ananke looked at Dylan, who gave her a sure-why-not-you’re-not-going-to-listen-to-me-anyway shrug.

  Instead of heading straight toward the open door, they went left to a spot directly across from it. Ananke’s eyebrow rose when she spotted the woman sitting on the bed inside, legs crossed. One of her hands relaxed on a knee; the other appeared to be strapped across her chest. Rosario and Dylan looked as perplexed as Ananke felt.

  There didn’t appear to be any danger, so they approached the doorway.

  The woman looked half Asian and half Caucasian. Ananke guessed she was a few inches shorter than herself, but it was hard to tell with the woman sitting as she was. Ananke could see the woman’s arm was indeed restrained. No cast, though, which made her wonder if something had happened to the woman’s shoulder and not the arm itself. Dislocated, perhaps?

  Surprisingly, the woman still hadn’t opened her eyes.

  “I think the idea is that you’re supposed to come out of there,” Dylan said loudly into the room.

  Ananke shot him an annoyed look.

  “What? Someone had to say something sometime.”

  The sitting woman made no indication she’d heard him.

  “Maybe she’s sleeping?” Dylan whispered.

  “You really do not know how to shut up, do you?” Rosario said.

  “She’s one of us. Why should I be quiet?”

  The sitting woman suddenly breathed deeply and moved her free hand into her lap. Eyes still closed, she said in German-accented English, “What do you mean, one of us?”

  With an I-told-you-so smile, Dylan said, “We’re cell buddies.”

  The woman parted her eyelids.

  “I’m Dylan,” he said, stepping into the doorway. “And this is Rosario, and the tall one’s Ananke. Who might you be?”

  The woman untangled her legs and walked over to the toilet. As she started to unbutton her pants, she glanced back at them. “If you do not mind.”

  “Oh, right. Sure.”

  They moved away from the door so the woman would have some privacy.

  The moment the toilet flushed, a male voice boomed from ceiling speakers scattered throughout the circular room. “Please make your way back to the conference room. We will begin in a few minutes.”

  Dylan looked up at the ceiling and yelled, “Begin what?”

  There was no response.

  17

  ANANKE SAT DOWN in the chair at the end of the conference table, while Rosario took one of those on the right and Dylan one on the left.

  A few moments later the woman from the fourth cell warily entered the room.

  “Glad you decided to join us,” Dylan said. He tapped the seat next to him. “You can sit by me. I’m the friendly one.”

  She considered him for no more than a second, and then took the chair next to Rosario.

  “Is it because I haven’t showered?” He smelled under his arm. “Eww. Definitely. Good call on your part.”

  The lights dimmed, and the wall directly opposite Ananke split down the middle and slid out of sight, revealing a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall screen. On it was the image of a man behind a desk, facing them. Short brown hair, graying on the sides.

  Ananke put him somewhere between late forties and early fifties. And his stylish dark gray suit, black shirt, and black tie marked him as a man who likely didn’t buy clothes off a rack. His hands sat on the desk, palms down, a stack of files between them.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Who the hell are you?” Rosario asked. “And why are you holding us prisoner?”

  “You are not prisoners. You are under our protection.”

  Dylan guffawed. “Protection? That’s why you locked us a
way in those tiny closets?”

  “The recovery rooms are no larger than they need to be. One does not need a penthouse suite when one is unconscious.”

  “How long were we out?” Ananke asked.

  “Different for each of you. Mr. Brody has been out for four days.”

  “Four?” Dylan said. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I am not.”

  “Four days gone,” Dylan scoffed. “That explains my headache, then.”

  “No, your reaction to the medication explains your headache. We would have used something else but there was nothing in your records to indicate your particular intolerance.”

  “Oh, you want to talk about intolerance, do you? I can—”

  “How long was I out?” Rosario asked.

  “Just a little less than Mr. Brody. Fraulein Kessler has been with us for twenty-two hours.”

  “And me?” Ananke said.

  “Seven days.”

  She’d been out for a whole week? That meant it had been eleven days since she fled Manila. “What the hell are we doing here?”

  “You are here because each of your lives was in danger.”

  “In danger?” Dylan said. “What are you talking about? My life wasn’t in danger.”

  “That van you were driving. Do you know what you were transporting?”

  Dylan grinned. “Of course I do. Flowers.”

  “Under the flowers. Beneath the fake floor. And in the van’s walls.”

  “Look, it’s not my job to know what the cargo is.”

  “You’re just the courier,” the man said.

  “Damn right.”

  The man pulled a file from his stack and opened it. “Your van was lined with C-4. Nearly four hundred pounds of it.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the first time,” Dylan said with an it’s-no-big-deal shrug, but he couldn’t keep the concern from creasing his brow.

  “What would someone do with four hundred pounds of stolen plastic explosive?” the man asked. “You don’t need to answer. I’ll tell you. You were to deliver the van to an expediter who had been hired to obtain it for an organization I believe you are familiar with. ISIL, Daesh, whatever you want to call them.”