by Terry Odell
Sanderson grasped the edge of the door and pulled. It slid smoothly open, revealing a short, narrow concrete block hallway with a concrete slab floor and a wooden door at the other end. Someone had gone to great pains to create this hideaway. Unlike the other doors, this one had no discernable opening mechanism.
Motioning Sanderson and Miri to hang back, he crossed the narrow space and leaned his ear against the wood. It sounded . . . hollow. “This is getting old,” he grumbled.
“Can we get in?” Miri asked.
From behind the door, someone sneezed. Quiet, muffled, but a definite sneeze. Then two more.
Sanderson’s flashlight dropped to the ground with a resonating clunk. It spun around, sending a miniature searchlight around the room. Dalton glared at him.
“That’s Nancy,” Sanderson said. “She always sneezes three times. Like that.” He pushed Dalton aside.
“Quiet.” He clapped a hand over Sanderson’s mouth. “Give me a second to think.” He almost dismissed the man’s insistence his wife was behind the door, writing it off as wishful thinking. It could’ve been a dog or cat.
But he knew it wasn’t. He knew he could recognize any of his team by their breathing, the way they walked, and yes, even the way they sneezed—although on an op, they’d know better.
Sanderson squirmed free. “Nancy! Are you all right?”
Footfalls and scraping sounds filtered through the door.
So much for thinking. He leaned down and pulled up his pant leg, removing his backup weapon, a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver, from his ankle holster. “You know how to use one of these?” he asked Sanderson.
Miri’s eyes widened.
Sanderson retrieved his light, then took the gun from Dalton’s hand. He flipped open the cylinder, spun it and clicked it shut. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“You do?” Miri said. Dalton could tell she was learning more about her brother-in-law tonight than in the years she’d known him.
“Shooting team at Harvard, although I prefer a rifle,” Sanderson said.
“Well, let’s hope we don’t need to use your skill.” He wondered if Sanderson would shoot a human being. A lot different from targets. In the dimly lit corridor, he saw Sanderson’s eyes. The man would defend himself and do what it took to save his wife. Dalton prayed it wouldn’t come to that. “Miri. Go back upstairs to the other room, please, darlin’. Sanderson—in the corner, if you don’t mind.”
Dalton pulled his Glock out.
Sanderson backed up, looking at him. “What are we doing?”
Adrenaline surged. Standing in a narrow hallway with no cover, he was an easy target. He held the flashlight up at what he assumed would be eye level for someone opening the door. No light bled through, so he assumed it was dark inside. Even a split second while someone reacted to a bright light in his eyes would give him the advantage he needed. Then again, the light sure as hell made him as easy to hit as the side of a barn.
Hoo yah. He flashed a grin at Sanderson. “What anyone does when they want to go a callin’.” He rapped three times. “We knock.”
Nothing. He counted to ten, then knocked again. This time, the door eased away from him, opening an inch, then two. Dirty fingers appeared, curled around the edge. Small fingers. A child? He lowered the beam of his light about a foot and got a glimpse of deep brown eyes before they squinted shut. The youngster darted back into the darkness.
Dalton gripped the door and gently pushed it forward, angling himself behind it until it was open all the way. He stepped around, Glock in one hand, Maglite in the other.
Holy crap. A spacious room, maybe twenty feet long and sixteen wide. Like the building above, it was newly built, although definitely used. A barracks was the first thing that came to mind. Metal bunk beds—five protruding from each wall like so many teeth. Twenty beds. He noted the rumpled bedding, piles of clothing and revised the vision from ship-shape barracks to college dorm. A six-foot tall concrete wall at the back partitioned the space. Who lived here? The child was gone.
“It’s okay,” he called to the empty room. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Come out, please.”
From behind him, Sanderson burst through the doorway. “Nancy! It’s Hunt. Where are you?”
Sanderson had heard right. A soft mechanical humming filled the room. Generator, was Dalton’s automatic assessment. Lights came on. Seconds later, a door opened at the far end of the room, beyond the last bed on the right. A ragtag assortment of Hispanic humanity emerged, stepping uncertainly into the space.
“Please,” said one, a leathery-skinned man who could have been thirty or eighty. “You will not send us back. Please.” He eyed Dalton’s Glock. “We are doing as you ask.”
Dalton lowered his weapon but kept it in his hand. Before he could say anything, Sanderson rushed to the center of the room, turning from one face to another.
“My wife,” he said. “Nancy. Where is my wife? ¿Donde está mi esposa?” He shoved the revolver into his pocket and brought out a wallet. Holding it open, he pointed, handed it to the man. “Mi esposa. Nancy.”
The young girl who’d let them in looked at the wallet, took it from the old man, then approached Sanderson. “Señora Nancy?”
“Yes,” Sanderson said, hope filling his voice. He tapped the billfold. “Si. Nancy.”
“Señora Nancy es enferma,” the child said. She pointed behind her.
“Is there anyone else with the Señora?” Dalton asked.
“She is alone,” the old man said. “We are all here.”
Maybe. Dalton held his Glock at the ready. He indicated Sanderson should do the same with the revolver.
Sanderson shook his head.
“Do it,” Dalton said.
Miri appeared at his side. Damn, she was supposed to be in the other room. Why didn’t she listen to him? He grabbed her arm before she walked into his line of fire.
She glared at him. “She’s a little kid, for God’s sake. These people don’t want to hurt us.”
“I sure as hell hope you’re right,” Dalton said. “But I’ve seen good men—and women—die at the hands of eight-year-olds. Tell me I was wrong later. When we’re safe. As a matter of fact, maybe you’d be better off upstairs.”
Miri’s hands fisted at her hips. “She’s my sister. You can’t dismiss me.”
“Damn it,” Sanderson said. “Nancy’s in there. Sick, according to the child. You two can stand here and argue, but I’m going in. Now.”
Dalton reminded himself that Sanderson and Miri weren’t part of Blackthorne, that they weren’t used to taking orders and obeying them without question. He plucked his phone from his shirt pocket. He laid it in his palm like a peace offering. “Miri, if you don’t mind, would you please go outside and contact Zeke. Find out what’s going on?” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, unsuccessfully, to judge from the eye-roll he got from Miri. But she snatched the phone and retreated. “Tell him purple,” he called after her. She glowered over her shoulder.
Dalton spoke to the group assembled in front of him. “Please. Por favor. Stay here.” He motioned to the old man, their apparent spokesperson. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Do you understand me?”
The man nodded. “Si. Yes. I speak some English.”
“What’s behind that wall?” Dalton pointed to the partition.
“Baño. Bathroom. Showers.”
“One second,” Dalton said to Sanderson. He strode across the room and checked behind the wall. An empty bathroom, standard gymnasium locker-room issue. What the old man said was the truth. A fraction—a very tiny fraction—of his concern eased.
“Please tell everyone to wait here,” he said to the old man. He smiled at the child. “Let’s go. Señora Nancy, por favor.”
The girl eyed his gun warily but slid her hand into Sanderson’s.
“It’s about damn time,” Sanderson muttered.
Dalton marched to the doorway, Sanderson and the girl at his heels. He stood sid
eways at the closed door and, Glock at his side, reached for the knob.
Chapter 28
Purple, Dalton had said. Good grief, was she in the middle of some cloak-and-dagger scenario, complete with secret passwords? Miri climbed the ladder into the closet, hurried through the house and stepped onto the porch. Hunter must have turned on every light in the place, down to bright carriage lamps flanking the door. She checked the phone’s display for a signal, then held it to her ear. “Um . . . Zeke? Are you there? Dalton sent me.”
A brief interlude of silence, then a deep male voice with a faint trace of a Minnesota cadence asked who she was.
“Miri Chambers. He’s—you—are looking for my sister, Nancy Sanderson.”
“Don’t suppose he’s around to confirm that, is he?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “We found a secret underground room, and he’s checking it out. He gave me his phone and said to ask you what’s going on.”
“That all he said?”
Feeling like an idiot, she added, “He said to say . . . um . . . purple.”
“Good to hear. Is the cowboy all right?” Zeke asked.
Okay, so she really was in the middle of secret-password land. Or dreaming, but she didn’t think that was the case. “He’s fine. But there’s no cell reception where he is, and he’s kind of busy.”
“Explain, please.” She detected an undercurrent of worry in his tone.
Shaking off exhaustion, she gathered her thoughts. “We found a bunch of people—probably illegals—hiding in a basement. One of them said Nancy was with them, but Dalton sent me out here. He and Hunter—that’s my brother-in-law, Nancy’s husband—have guns and they’re checking it out.”
“Ten-four. If your sister’s with Dalton, ma’am, she’s in good hands.”
“Got her.” The voice was coming through the phone, but sounded far away. “ETA in less than two.”
An Australian accent. And a familiar voice. A helicopter whirred. She stepped away and searched the skies.
“Ma’am, please get inside.” Dumbfounded, she stared at the phone, then into the surrounding darkness and back up to the sky. Aside from a half moon and some stars, she saw nothing.
“Are you talking to me?” she asked Zeke, or whoever was on the other end of the line. “If I go inside, I lose the signal.”
“Yes, ma’am. Miri. It’s Zeke again. All right. Try to stay as close to the house as you can to keep the connection.”
Amid more crackling, Aussie’s voice came over the phone. “Can you hear me, Miri?”
“Yes. Where are you? Who are you?”
“Right. We were never introduced at Patterson’s, were we? I’m Fozzie, and I’m about five hundred feet above you. I work with Dalton. A couple of our mates will be joining you shortly.”
As he finished speaking, two shadows emerged from behind some trees, taking human form as they jogged in her direction. She backed toward the house, leaning against the wall for support. “Umm . . . I see two people, but how do I know they’re your men?”
Another crackle, then a green light appeared, tracing a circle above the head of one of the figures.
“I had them give you a signal,” Fozzie said. “What did you see?”
She took a few steps forward, improving the reception. “A green light.”
“Those are my men. Ryan Harper and Hotshot McCade. Point them to Dalton, if you will.”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see the gesture, although she thought he should be able to hear all the new information rolling around in her head like rattling maracas. “Yes, sir.”
The two men arrived, clad in the same dark camouflage as Dalton. The resemblance ended there. They wore packs on their backs, headphones with microphones at their cheeks and weapons. Big weapons. Lots of weapons. She told herself these were the good guys, that she should be glad to see them, but the words weren’t getting past the panic filling her.
“Miri Chambers?” one man said.
She nodded.
“I’m Ryan,” he said, white teeth making a fleeting appearance. “Where’s Dalt?”
She started to lead the way.
“No, ma’am,” Ryan said. “Tell me. You stay here with Hotshot.”
The other man touched the edge of his watch cap with two fingers. Creases crinkled at the edge of his blue eyes. “I’ll escort you to the helo. You’ll be safe there.”
Helo? She thought of their arrival. Okay, helo was a helicopter. Good. She wasn’t too scared to put two and two together. Somehow, she found the ability to speak. “My sister is down there. Along with her husband and maybe a dozen terrified immigrants. If you think I’m going to crawl into a hole—or a helo—you can—well, forget it.”
The men exchanged eye-rolling glances and shrugged.
“Confirmation on the vehicle.” Ryan said. “Crashed about half a klick away. We have the package.”
Package? Had he called her a package? She was about to retort, but Ryan’s eyes got a faraway stare and he put his fingers to the headset before turning his back. He said something she couldn’t understand, and she realized he wasn’t talking to her. He stopped, then he and Hotshot did that glance-exchange thing again. Hotshot unzipped Ryan’s pack and pulled out another headset. “Here,” he said. “This is for Dalton, but you can borrow it.”
He helped her adjust it, explained what she’d be hearing, and what to press when she wanted to talk. Fozzie’s voice in her ear made her jump. “Miss Chambers, I’m in a helicopter about a hundred meters from your position. I can hear everything going on, and my job is to make sure everyone’s safe.”
Safe from what? Some helpless migrants?
She pressed the button the way Hotshot showed her. “Umm . . . okay. But I’m not leaving my sister.”
“I understand. Please stay close to my mates, and do whatever they say. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”
“We’re on our way,” another voice said. Hotshot waved her inside. She pointed down the hall. Hotshot led, and Ryan motioned her forward. She was following two men dressed for a combat zone.
I’m dreaming. It’s late. I must have fallen asleep watching a war movie.
She rubbed her eyes, hurrying after Hotshot. “Last door,” she said, not sure if she was talking to the men with her or an entire audience of total strangers on the other end of her headset. “On the right.”
The men moved, silent as ghosts, down the hall and into the room. She pointed to the closet, with its open door. Hotshot disappeared and caught her the same way Dalton had when she descended.
“Where?” came through her headset.
Fozzie’s voice crackled through. “Heat sources about ten yards ahead, at two o’clock.”
Reflexively, she checked her watch. It was almost four, not two. She rubbed her eyes. Slowly, the words registered. Direction, not time.
Hotshot was examining the shelving unit, which had closed behind her when she’d left Dalton. With a barely contained smirk, she strode forward and gave it a shove, enjoying the quick lift of Ryan’s eyebrow and the thumbs-up from Hotshot when it opened.
Three feet away from the second door, Ryan halted their progress with an upraised hand. “Does it open the same way?” he whispered.
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t in here. But I think Dalton knocked.”
“How novel,” Hotshot said. He motioned them to stay where they were, stepped forward and raised his knuckles.
* * * * *
The child followed Dalton into the adjacent room, which, unlike the brightly lit one they’d come from, was dark. Their kitchen and dining room, he guessed from shadowy shapes of tables and kitchen appliances. A moan came from the floor, and he flipped on his flashlight. Nancy slouched against the wall, eyes closed, wrapped in a blanket.
Sanderson shoved past him and crouched at her side. “Nance—it’s me.” He pushed the blanket from her head. “God, you’re burning up. What happened?” He gripped her hand.
Her eyes opened. “
Hunt?”
“Sweetheart, yes. I’m here. You’re going to be fine, baby.” He cast imploring eyes to Dalton, seeking confirmation.
Dalton shut the door, then knelt beside them. Sweat glistened on Nancy’s upper lip, damp tendrils of hair clung to her face. He brushed them away, revealing a purple bruise on her forehead. Her mouth was swollen and an assortment of abrasions marred her cheek and jaw.
He gave her his best smile. “Hello, Mrs. Sanderson. Nancy. I’m Dalton, a friend of Miri’s and your husband’s. We’re going to get you out of here and to the hospital, okay?” Her eyes, glazed with fever, seemed focused on Sanderson. Gently, he took her chin in his hand, careful not to move her head. “Nancy, listen to me a minute. Where are you hurt?”
“Hurts.”
“Tell us where, baby.” Alarm filled Sanderson’ voice. “Who did this to you?”
“My head.” She raised her hand to the lump on her forehead. “Don’t remember.”
“Give me your penlight,” Dalton said to Sanderson. The man slapped the cylinder into his hand. Dalton flipped it on and shone it in Nancy’s eyes. Her pupils contracted.
“You know what you’re doing?” Sanderson asked.
“Basic emergency first aid. Her pupils look good, but I want to check for other injuries.” He unfolded the blanket. She was wearing torn, dirty sweatpants and a stained sweatshirt zipped to the neck, its hood pillowed behind her head. Expensive sneakers, but not what he expected after seeing her at the Sanderson’s going away party.
“Take her shoes off,” he told Sanderson. “Carefully. Don’t move her more than necessary.” For what that was worth. Hell, she’d probably been moved plenty getting her here.
While Sanderson worked on Nancy’s shoes, Dalton ran his hands down her arms, watching for any indication he was hurting her. She didn’t flinch. Gently, he pressed her belly. The muscles contracted under his touch, but she didn’t cry out.
“Shoes are off,” Sanderson said.
“Nancy, can you move your toes?” There was no response, and he fought a surge of panic. “Nancy, look at me.” She didn’t take her gaze from her husband.