The general leaned forward and flicked a button. Abruptly, the cries from below were cut off. He flicked another button. “Doctor? She may be removed now.”
Pendergast looked toward his companions. Alves-Vettoretto seemed rooted in place, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Meanwhile, General Smith was looking directly at him, with an expression almost of encouragement. The orderlies came in and collected her, strapping her on to a gurney and hustling out the rear door, leaving the room empty.
A final orderly scooped up the foot and placed it in a medical waste bag.
“Give them a few moments to clean up the mess down there,” the general said. “And then we can proceed. We won’t have long to wait.”
65
THE ORDERLIES SWIFTLY returned with mops, squeegees, and disinfectant, cleaning up the splattered and pooled blood with alarming efficiency while the doctor watched, arms crossed. They took the parang from the floor, wiped it down, disinfected it with alcohol, and placed it back on a gurney, covering it with a white cloth. And then the doctor gestured to an orderly, who exited the lab and, a moment later, opened the door to the observation room.
“The doctor wants the next subject for the second round of experiments,” he said.
The general ignored this and looked instead at Pendergast. “Care to make an observation?”
Pendergast didn’t reply.
“I’d imagine you’re wondering if you could resist the overwhelming compulsion of that drug. She was quite resistant, until the end. Could you do better? I admit to being intrigued myself. It will make an interesting experiment.”
Silence.
“Nothing at all to say?”
Pendergast fixed his eyes on the general. “You and I know perfectly well this is a charade. You’re going to test the drug on me regardless of what I do or say.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The expression of zeal on the good doctor’s face. And, of course, the simple fact that you cannot let me out of here alive.”
“Your latter statement is, I’m afraid, true. As for the doctor, the eagerness you note is an eagerness to get back to his second round of experiments—which your arrival has interrupted. However, I’m sure he won’t protest this further delay when I explain to him that a man like you will prove the ultimate test. I’ve read your jacket, you see—and I’m aware of what you did while in the military. Administering the drug to a person who truly possesses a will of iron and, aware of what is to come, knows what he must prepare for—will you be able to resist? If not, we can be confident the drug has been perfected.” The general turned to the soldiers. “Take him into the lab.”
One soldier grasped the wheelchair while another stood behind and wheeled him out the door, down the hall, and into the lab. A moment later Pendergast was parked in the center of the room, over the drain. The doctor was holding a phone connected to a wall, no doubt an inside line to the general in the observation room. Finally, the doctor hung up, brought over a pair of scissors, and cut the sleeve away from Pendergast’s right forearm. He didn’t bother to swab, but inserted the IV needle, got blood, and taped it down.
“A vial of H12K, please,” he said to an orderly.
“Doctor,” the orderly said, “just so you know: that’s the last of the initial new batch.”
“So?”
“Well, it was earmarked for subject 714, who’s next on the list and has been waiting in the prep room.”
“This one is more important,” the doctor snapped. “Get me the vial and send 714 back to his cell.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The orderly opened a tabletop refrigerator, took out a vial, and handed it to the doctor, along with a freshly unsealed syringe.
The doctor inserted the needle through the cap of the vial, drew out a precisely measured amount, then held the needle up and depressed the plunger until a clear drop appeared, quivering at the hollow tip. He looked up at the one-way mirror with an anticipatory expression.
“Pendergast?” came the general’s voice over the intercom. “Last chance to speak.”
There was a long silence. Then the general’s voice sounded again. “Inject him.”
66
OVER AN HOUR ago they’d brought Coldmoon up from the cell, blindfolded, cuffed to one of the two guards, and wearing the filthy hospital gown belonging to Luís, stenciled over the chest with the number 714. After a circuitous journey, they took off the blindfold and he found himself in a small room—a sort of annex, it seemed—in beige cinder block, with two benches screwed to the floor, along with a locked medical cabinet. He had been seated on a bench, the guard he was cuffed to beside him. The other guard took the seat opposite, his M16 laid across his lap. Both guards were bored, clearly used to this routine. Coldmoon was careful to maintain a defeated attitude, adopting a listless shuffle that had annoyed the guards into prodding him forward more than once.
As the minutes had passed, Coldmoon had marveled at how silent the room was. There was a large, stout door in the opposite wall that, he figured, led to the laboratory where the inmates were experimented on. He had no idea what those experiments might be, although he assumed they involved the horror of self-amputation. If this was the waiting room, then soundproofing made sense—he imagined what came next would be a pretty noisy ordeal.
As the minutes passed, Coldmoon considered his next step. On the one hand, he could continue to wait until he was called. The imprisoned man had told him there were ninety minutes between appointments—for want of a better word—and as far as he could tell, his own ninety were nearly up. A better course of action would be to take charge now and force the action himself, when he knew the lay of the land and his adversaries were least prepared. The guard sitting next to him was half-asleep, and the other beginning to nod off as well.
He’d never get a better—or even another—opportunity.
Pretending to be weary himself, Coldmoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head nodding, arms drooping down. He yawned quietly, resignedly. Slowly, he reached one arm under the hospital gown he was wearing and grasped the butt of the Browning he’d strapped to his upper calf. He freed it from its holster, careful to make no noise. And then, with a smooth, unhurried motion, he brought it up and fired point-blank at the guard next to him, the sound of the shot deafeningly loud in the confined space, spraying the cinder-block wall with gore. The other guard jerked his head up just in time to receive a bullet in the face. He slammed backward against the wall, then rolled onto the floor.
Soundproofing or not, Coldmoon knew the tremendous loudness of the shots would probably generate a response. His own ears were ringing. Laying the Browning aside, he grabbed the guard’s M16 with his free arm and crouched, aiming at the stout door.
A second or two later, the door slammed open and Coldmoon let loose a burst, taking down a uniformed guard who had come to investigate. With the weapon clutched under his right arm, still aimed at the door, he knelt down, plucked the handcuff key from the dead guard on the bench, and unlocked the cuffs. Then he moved forward toward the door, waited a moment, and kicked it wide.
He found himself in a large, dazzlingly lit laboratory. There, to his astonishment, was Pendergast, strapped and tied to a wheelchair, an IV rack beside him. Two orderlies and a doctor fell back in confusion and horror, the doctor dropping a syringe. Two soldiers who were overseeing the proceedings began to turn toward Coldmoon. He dropped them both with one long burst.
“Behind that mirror!” said Pendergast with a nod. “Kill everyone but the woman.”
Glancing in the indicated direction, comprehending immediately the mirror was a one-way observation window, Coldmoon trained the weapon on it and raked it with a two-second burst. The glass shattered in a huge spray, plates falling free, and behind it he saw a military officer in camo struggling to stand up, next to a woman. A third burst stitched its way up the general’s trunk from groin to throat, and he pitched forward, falling from the ruined window into the labora
tory below with the sound of wet meat hitting the floor, as the woman scrambled away in panic. Coldmoon swung the M16 around to take out the doctor and orderlies—but they had already escaped out one of the lab doors.
Sirens went off in the room.
“The parang,” said Pendergast, pointing at it with his eyes.
Coldmoon snatched up the parang and used it to slice Pendergast free of the wheelchair. Pendergast ripped the IV from his arm and leapt to his feet, seizing an M16 from one of the dead soldiers.
The sirens continued to sound. And now a red light in the ceiling began to revolve.
Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Shall we take our leave?”
“Hell, yes.”
67
AS THEY BURST through the back door, they saw the woman staggering out of the observation room and into the hall in front of them.
She turned. Coldmoon saw her face was streaming blood, cut by flying glass.
“I can’t…I can’t believe…” She gasped, wiping blood from her face. “I had no idea…”
“Pull yourself together,” Pendergast said. “You’re going to show us the way out of this chamber of horrors, Ms. Alves-Vettoretto.”
“I have limited passkey privileges. But…” She swayed and Pendergast grasped her arm to keep her from collapsing. “The doctor…he ran by and went in there.” She pointed to a closet door with a bloody hand. “He has full access.”
“Stand back.” Pendergast went to the door and tried the knob. Finding it locked, he fired the M16 into the lock and kicked the door open. The doctor was crouching behind a set of shelves with glass bottles, the orderlies trying to hide on either side.
Pendergast strode forward. The orderlies, unarmed, shrank back as he seized the doctor and hauled him to his feet, knocking the shelves over with a crash. The man cringed and burbled with fear. “Don’t, please don’t kill me. I didn’t want to do any of it; they forced me—”
Pendergast shook him like a rag doll. “You’re going to lead us out of here.”
“Yes! I will, of course I will,” the doctor babbled, his eyes blinking in servile agreement, head nodding.
Pendergast shoved him out through the door. “Best way out, no trickery.” He turned to the woman. “You too.”
“Best way out.” The doctor nodded, his look of servile terror morphing into a grotesque grin. “This way.” He scurried down the hall, and they followed.
The doctor used his passkey to open a door at the far end. “Through here.”
They went through the door into another hallway that led off to both the left and the right. The doctor turned down the right passage.
“What’s the route?” Pendergast asked.
“I’m going to take you out past the barracks. Fewer guards.”
“That’s a lie!” the woman named Alves-Vettoretto blurted out.
Pendergast and Coldmoon turned toward her.
She seemed as surprised at her outburst as they did. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “The barracks will be a hornet’s nest. You should go out the side entrance, through the old river gate.”
Pendergast turned back to the doctor, weapon raised in menacing inquiry.
The doctor hesitated. Then, with a hiss and an evil glance at Alves-Vettoretto, he turned and led the way down the left-hand passage until it ended in another door. The doctor used his passkey to unlock it, revealing a stairwell beyond.
Pendergast cracked the door open and listened. Loud voices echoed upward, along with the sound of pounding feet.
He slipped onto the landing, followed by Coldmoon. They heard the group of soldiers ascending rapidly.
Pendergast glanced at Coldmoon, who nodded his understanding. He hoisted his weapon over the railing just as Coldmoon called out in a loud, harsh voice: “Hey, you guys! Look down! They’re at the bottom of the stairwell, trapped!”
Five heads popped out from the landing below and Pendergast fired a long burst down the stairwell.
“Dumb bastards,” said Coldmoon as they ran past the bodies of five guards, sprawled and hung over the railings. Alves-Vettoretto stumbled along, Coldmoon sometimes holding her up. Another landing, and they arrived at the bottom.
“Go right, then straight,” the doctor said. “That passes through the holding cells.”
Pendergast turned his weapon toward the doctor again and the man cringed back. “It does! I swear it does!”
Pendergast looked at Alves-Vettoretto. She nodded.
They followed the directions, jogging down a maze of cinder-block halls until they came to the large open area where Coldmoon had found the prisoners. They were pressed against the bars.
“¿Qué pasa?” several of them cried. “¿Qué pasa?”
“You’ll be free soon,” Coldmoon replied in Spanish.
They jogged along, leaving behind a hubbub of excitement.
“We’ve got to go down one more level,” said the doctor. “There are crash doors we can use to get out the back of the building.”
He directed them to another stairwell, down one more level, and through another maze of corridors, encountering only one guard, who was so frightened he dropped his rifle in surprise and tried to surrender. Coldmoon took the magazine from his rifle, put one warning finger to his lips, and then left him. Finally, at the end of a short hall, they came to a crash door.
“This is it,” the doctor said.
“Where does it go?”
“It leads through a parking lot, through a gate, and to the road to the river.”
Pendergast turned to Alves-Vettoretto. She shrugged and shook her head. He leaned into the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Then he pushed it open and gestured for them to follow, weapons raised. As the door opened wide, Coldmoon could hear the wail of sirens grow suddenly louder.
“You don’t need me anymore,” said the doctor, beginning to scurry off.
“Not so fast,” Coldmoon said, grabbing the man and giving him a hard shove. “You’re staying with us.”
They came out into a side parking lot, with rows of jeeps, Humvees, and transport trucks. Rain was falling, blown in gusts, and a flash of lightning lit up the clouds, followed by a distant rumble. Klieg lights from the tower above were roaming over the area. They pressed themselves against the wall of the building as a beam passed.
Pendergast looked at Alves-Vettoretto. “Are you going to be able to do this?”
She nodded mutely.
“Stay close,” said Pendergast. He darted out across an open area and crouched beside a truck as the others followed. Another light passed nearby and Coldmoon could see a line of soldiers moving along the far wall, arms at the ready.
“Where’s the gate?” Pendergast asked the doctor.
“In that far wall,” the doctor replied. “Beyond the big truck, to the right.”
“Is it guarded?”
“Yes, but it’s the least defended gate into the complex.”
“And beyond that?”
“Nothing but a ruined courtyard. Then the road down to the river.”
Pendergast and Coldmoon rose cautiously and peered over the hood of the truck. Through the rain they could see the gate, lit up, manned by four soldiers on high alert. Another patrol, jogging alongside the wall, rounded the corner and they ducked down.
“Beyond that courtyard, how far to the river?” Pendergast asked.
“About a quarter mile.”
Pendergast, crouching, moved alongside the truck, then sprinted across another open area to hunker down behind a Humvee. The rest caught up behind him. The tower lights roamed this way and that. After waiting a moment for the lights to pass, they dashed to another vehicle, and then another, approaching the gate.
Now the patrolling squad of soldiers appeared again, moving through the center of the parking lot, the men spread out with portable spotlights, probing among the dark array of vehicles.
Pendergast gestured for them all to crouch down and wait.
The soldiers wound through th
e vehicles, every once in a while shining a beam inside or underneath one. They were speaking to each other by radio in low voices, moving swiftly.
As the soldiers neared their hiding place, Coldmoon braced himself; if they were discovered, there would be nothing for it but to engage in a firefight, two against ten. But discovery wasn’t a given—at the rate they were moving, there were many more vehicles than the soldiers could inspect thoroughly. It was a fast sweep.
He held his breath as he heard, through the sound of the rain, the murmuring of the soldiers into their walkie-talkies.
Suddenly, the doctor jumped up, waving his arms and crying out shrilly. “It’s me, Dr. Smith! Don’t shoot, I’m the chief doctor. I have hostages—!”
Two simultaneous bursts of gunfire cut him almost in half, opening him up like a ripe papaya. But the doctor’s treachery had caused the soldiers to pause, giving Coldmoon and Pendergast an opportunity to return fire. They dropped two soldiers before the others dove for cover.
Pendergast skittered around one side of the vehicle and fired again, gunning down one of the soldiers at the checkpoint.
“To the gate!” he shouted, taking Alves-Vettoretto by the arm and hauling her along.
But even as he spoke, a klieg light locked on them, bathing them in brilliant light and blocking their ability to see into the darkness beyond. They dove for cover behind a truck as the soldiers opened fire again, the rounds hammering through the metal above their heads, showering them with chips of paint and bits of canvas.
“If we can get past that gate, there’ll be cover in the woods,” Pendergast said to Coldmoon. “We’ll alternate movements. Lay down suppressing fire while I try to clear the gate. You first, then I’ll take her.” He turned to Alves-Vettoretto. “Are you ready?”
Crooked River Page 33