by Nora Phoenix
He emptied the gas canister onto the floor near the door. It had been maybe a third full, but it would do the job. The hay on the floor would spread the fire fast enough, Indy reckoned. OK, now all he needed was one match and his fastest sprint ever. He opened the box of matches, took one out.
Please, let this work.
He lit the match and threw it immediately on the floor.
Whoosh.
Oh yeah, it worked all right. The floor was on fire in seconds.
Indy sprinted back, launched himself on his belly under the tractor. He almost fell down the hatch face first but stopped himself just in time. He crawled down the steps. The barn was on fire. They’d come running any second now. He closed the hatch, swiping his phone to create more light and turned around.
Miles’ eyes were wide open, his face terrified. Indy kneeled beside him.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’re gonna get out of here.”
He took the tape off his mouth first. Even though he did it as gently as he could, Miles’ lip started bleeding again.
“Fire,” was the first thing out of Miles’ mouth.
“I started it as a distraction. This tunnel leads somewhere, presumably to another storm cellar, and then outside. We’ll follow it.”
The plain kitchen knife he’d swiped two weeks ago wasn’t ideal for cutting through tie wraps, but it would have to do. He started working on Miles’ feet immediately. The guy wasn’t even wearing shoes. They’d dragged him straight out of bed, judging by his PJ bottoms and shirt.
“Crouch,” Miles said, swallowing.
“I know. They got something on him, probably. You need some water?”
Miles nodded, then winced. His head had to hurt like a motherfucker. Indy grabbed a bottled water from his backpack, screwed off the cap and held it to Miles’ mouth. Miles rinsed his mouth with the first sip, spit it out to the side, then took a few big gulps.
“Better. Thank you.”
Indy went back to cutting through the tie wraps. The smell of the fire was unmistakable now and the noise was increasing. They had to get out of here.
“Finally,” Indy breathed as the tie around Miles’ legs snapped. “Can you stand up?”
He helped Miles get to his feet. The agent staggered, probably dizzy from the beating he took.
“Shit,” he said, before turning his head to the side and throwing up.
Indy wordlessly held out the bottle of water again to his lips, and he drank a few sips.
“Anything broken?”
“My nose. Few bruised ribs, but I don’t think they’re broken. Bruised and battered all over and I took a few severe kicks to my stomach, but there’s nothing we can do about that now. Let’s go.”
“Your hands are still tied.”
“We’ll get to that later. We need to get out of here before the whole barn collapses on top of us.”
Indy nodded. Good point. He grabbed his backpack, threw a few more water bottles in that were stacked against the wall, and put it on.
“I’ll lead,” he said, holding out his phone to illuminate the way.
Above them the fire roared, and the first smoke was seeping through the cracks. Indy walked into the tunnel, and the noise immediately lessened. It got cooler, too. They were probably under the gravel driveway that connected all the farm buildings.
The wall curved and their soft footsteps sounded hollower. Another chamber, similar to the one under the hay barn. Was this the horse barn? It was empty, of course, but Indy hadn’t had much time to explore it, since it was farther out from the main house. It would make sense, though.
Indy kept following the tunnel, sighing with relief as it continued around a bend. The air turned even colder. His body hurt as if he’d run a marathon—at least, that’s what he imagined his body would feel like after completing such a brutal distance. Dragging Miles had taken a toll out of him. Still, compared to Miles he was peachy. The guy was walking this tunnel barefoot. That alone had to hurt like a motherfucker, let alone all his injuries.
“Where the hell does this thing lead?” Miles asked softly. He was panting behind Indy.
“I don’t know. I’m glad it’s leading us out of there, though.”
They walked on. Indy’s hand touched the wall. Moisture. The wall was wet. He stopped, tried to picture the farm’s layout in his mind. If you drew a straight line from the hay barn to the horse barn and then farther out, what was next? There was a water tower, situated near a small pond. That could explain the moisture, access water from a well, or the pond. Fuck, he hoped whoever had built this tunnel had known his shit. If this thing collapsed, they’d be dead.
“I think we’re near the water tower,” he said.
“That makes sense.”
They kept walking, the wall slowly turning dry again, then colder and colder. A draft circled around his arms, making him shiver. It meant there was a connection with the outside, somewhere. But where the hell were they?
They hit another chamber and this time the wall circled around. This was the end of the tunnel. In the middle of the chamber, wooden steps led up to another hatch with three huge metal bolts—all unlocked. Which made sense, because you wanted them locked from the inside once you were inside. That meant they’d have to be able to crawl out, but where would they end up? How visible was this storm shelter, exactly?
Indy couldn’t hear anything, except for Miles’ labored breaths. The air felt fresher though, less stale. No smells of hay or horses. He was certain they’d walked at least half a mile, probably slightly more, so they were somewhere outside the direct line of the farm buildings. Hell, the water tower and pond were already on the edge. Maybe somewhere at the end of the fields? It would make sense to build a shelter there as well, in case you were working on the land and saw a twister coming. You wouldn’t have enough time to make it back to the farm.
He shone the light around. Ah. A few wooden shelves with more bottles of water and some food. This was an active storm shelter, then. He took three bottles, put them in his backpack. This was Kansas, so these people would have more than mere water down here. Storms could last and he was right in the middle of tornado alley, so it made sense this cellar was stocked.
“Take the candy bars as well,” Miles said, his voice tight. The guy had to be in excruciating pain.
“They’re probably way past the expiration date,” Indy said.
“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s our biggest problem right now,” Miles said.
He had a point there. Indy grabbed a handful of the bars and stuffed them in his backpack as well. At least they’d have something to eat, even if it tasted like crap and gave them explosive diarrhea.
“Now what?” he asked Miles.
“Can you try and untie my hands? I’m starting to lose circulation.”
Indy put his phone between Miles’ hands so he’d have light, took the knife from his backpack, and started working on the tie wraps. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“Pretty shitty,” Miles said. That was probably a gross understatement. Indy looked up at him. Even in the dim light it was clear Miles looked like death warmed over.
Indy swallowed. “You’re not gonna keel over, I hope?”
“I don’t intend to. But Indy, if I do, you get out of here, you hear me? I can’t believe you dragged me out of that barn in the first place. You shoulda run.”
Indy shook his head, continuing to saw at the tie wrap. “Enough people have died for me.”
The tie wrap finally gave, and Miles’ hands sprung free. Indy took his phone back as Miles started rubbing his wrists.
“Wait, listen,” Indy said.
Miles stopped rubbing. They both angled their heads.
“Sirens,” Indy said. “Fire trucks are coming.”
“And cops,” Miles said. He looked at Indy. “What do you want to do?”
Indy scoffed. “You’re asking me? You’re the hotshot FBI agent.”
A look of pain passed over
the agent’s face. “We failed you. Again. Dammit, Indy, if you hadn’t made what looks like at least three back-up plans, you’d be dead. And me too, probably.”
Indy’s face softened. “I know. It’s not your fault.”
“I gotta sit down,” Miles said.
Indy watched with rising worry as Miles lowered himself to the floor, his breaths irregular and his face covered with sweat. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you want to do, Indy?” Miles ignored his question.
Indy bit his bottom lip. “I don’t know. You’re in no condition to go far. I think you need medical help.”
Miles reached for his pocket and drew out his phone with uncoordinated moves. He pressed his thumb on the screen to unlock it, then held it out with a trembling hand. “Remember what I said, Indy. Get the fuck out of here.”
Indy took the phone as Miles blinked slowly. Oh no. He was gonna keel over. “Miles, stay with me,” Indy said. He dropped to the floor beside him and reached out to steady him. Miles let out a loud groan, then went slack. Indy barely had time to catch him and ease him to the floor, while holding Miles’ phone. Now what?
What the hell was wrong with the agent? Was it the concussion? He was so fucking pale. Sweaty.
It had to be something else. But how bad was it? He was not losing him, but he didn’t want to call in the cavalry if the guy had merely fainted from pain. He needed advice. Medical advice.
His own phone was nothing but a shell. The FBI had taken out his SIM card first thing. That made sense, since he’d be traceable with it. But Miles had handed him his phone, had unlocked it, so that meant this thing had to be safe, right? He’d wanted Indy to use it. He wasted no time, called the only number he could think of.
One, two, three rings. Then that sweet, sweet voice.
“Yeah?”
He sounded sleepy. Indy checked his watch. No wonder, it was just after four in the morning, though an hour later in New York. “Noah,” he merely said.
“Indy! Are you okay?”
Indy’s eyes filled immediately. “No. I need your help. There’s an agent with me, Miles. He’s wounded and he passed out a minute ago, and I need to know what to do.”
“Okay, baby. Describe his condition to me. Start with what you know happened to him, then describe what you see on his body, from top to bottom.”
Indy nodded. Thank fuck Noah knew what to do. “He’s beaten up. Kicked too, I think, ‘cause I see footprints on his belly. He threw up earlier. His nose is broken and his face is pretty bloody. Split lip.”
“Was he lucid at first? Did he talk to you?”
“Yeah. He was in pain, but we walked about half a mile, maybe more. He said he had to sit down, and he was pale and sweaty.”
“Check his upper body,” Noah said. “Can you see anything?”
Indy held the phone with one hand while he lifted Miles’ gray T-shirt up. “Damn, he’s got big bruises all over. They hit him hard.”
“Feel his belly. Does it feel bloated? Extended?”
Indy placed a hesitant hand on Miles’ abdomen and pushed gently. He didn’t feel the solid muscles he’d expected. Instead, it was hard, but swollen. “It’s hard, but like he’s blown up inside,” he reported.
“It sounds like he’s got internal bleeding. His spleen, most likely, or maybe his kidneys. Depending on how big the bleed is, you don’t have much time. He needs surgery as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Indy said, but his heart sank. Surgery. That meant calling an ambulance. How the fuck would he pull that off without endangering them both?
“Babe, are you okay?”
“I am. I love you, Noah. So much. I’m so sorry. I gotta go.”
He hung up before he could change his mind. Miles needed him. Indy took off the agent’s FBI badge, held it close to the phone so he could read the number on it.
He dialed the all-too-familiar number, taking a deep breath. He had to pull this off if he wanted to save Miles.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“This is Special Agent Miles Hampton, FBI, badge number 9529537. I need an ambulance under police escort at the Kensington Farm.”
“Okay. Fire trucks and law enforcement is already at the scene, and they’ve reported finding two bodies. Where are you located? And can you tell us what is going on?”
They were dead. Nunez and Fisher were indeed dead. Indy swallowed. Fuck, he had no idea where he was. Now what? “I’m at an undisclosed location close to the farm. Send the ambulance and I’ll let you know where to meet me.”
“Ambulance is en route.”
“I also need immediate backup from all available law enforcement personnel in the area. Please be advised Special Agent James Crouch is compromised, and the FBI team at the farm was attacked by at least four assailants, identities unknown. Please contact the FBI headquarters and refer to the Stephan Moreau case for further information. I’ll call you back in two minutes with my location.”
He hung up before the operator could ask anything else. Had he managed to convince her he was Miles? He’d tried to sound professional, but he could only copy what he’d seen in movies and TV series. Fuck knew how agents talked in real life.
Miles was still unconscious, but at least he was still breathing. To get him to a hospital, Indy needed to know where they were first.
Fuck, he hoped the hinges of the hatch had been oiled recently. Indy walked up the stairs till he was right below the hatch, then stowed away his phone. Too risky to use now. The light could spill and alert others to their presence.
He slowly pushed it open. Damn, that thing was heavy. No wonder, if it was located outside and had to withstand an F5 tornado. He pushed his weight into it and finally felt it budge. It slowly opened, not making a sound until it was almost at ninety degrees. Then it let out a tired squeak, and Indy froze.
No one called out in the blackness surrounding him. A breeze touched his cheeks. He was definitely outside. He pushed it completely open and stepped outside. He stumbled over a small metal rail he hadn’t seen, landing on his hands and feet. Still nothing.
He had no trouble orienting himself because a huge orange glow lit up the sky where the farm was, accentuated by many flashing lights from fire trucks and police cars. He’d been right, he was somewhere out in the fields. A few hundred yards down, he spotted the road leading to the farm.
His one big gamble was his assumption that Crouch and his men were long gone by now. They had to be, with emergency personnel flooding the farm. The operator had said they’d already discovered two bodies, so the cops had to be searching the area. No, the attackers had to be gone.
Indy hurried back down into the cellar. Was it even safe to carry Miles up the steps? He had to, otherwise he’d never get him to the surface where he could be found. Maybe he shouldn’t put pressure on his belly, though. This time, he lifted him under his armpits and dragged him up the steps, inch by inch. So damn heavy.
By the time he had him out on the field, Indy was panting like crazy. That could actually come in handy. He grabbed Miles’ phone and redialed.
“911, what is your…”
“Special Agent Hampton again.”
“Your ambulance is two minutes out. We need your location.”
“Flare. I’m shooting a flare.” Indy panted and loudly groaned. “I’m hurt. Internal bleeding, hurry the fuck up. Not feeling well.”
“We’re on our way. Stay on the line.”
Indy disconnected and dumped the phone on Miles’ body, then ran back down for one last trip. He’d spotted the flare gun amongst the emergency stuff in the storm cellar. He waited till he saw flashlights coming down the road and shot the flare gun, then put it next to Miles.
“Don’t die on me, Miles. Not after all this,” he whispered.
He knew the cops would find his fingerprints on the flare gun and on Miles’ phone, but he’d be long gone by then. On the road, police cars came to a screeching halt.
Right, his exit cue.
He took off, headed for the fields with wheat or whatever the fuck it was. The stalks were tall enough to hide him, so he slipped between them and started running as fast as he could without making noise. He had no idea where he was heading, but anywhere but here was fine with him.
23
Noah was frantic. Indy had hung up on him, and he couldn’t call back because the number had been blocked. Fuck knew where he was calling from and under what circumstances. Fact was that something had happened. An agent had been wounded. Miles, Indy had called him. That meant they had been attacked at their safe location. Did the FBI know this? Should he call it in?
Fuck, he wished Josh was here, or that he could at least call him. Aside from the fact that it was five in the morning, it was not an option. A nurse from the clinic had called him a week earlier, told him Josh had suffered a severe breakdown and would be admitted to the closed ward again for at least two weeks. Since Noah was still his health care proxy they’d asked for his permission to provide Josh with various anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. Noah was worried sick about him, even more so because Josh wasn’t allowed any contact while there.
“Noah, is everything okay?” Brad’s voice called out from outside his bedroom. He must’ve woken up from the phone ringing or Noah talking to Indy.
“Yeah. No,” Noah corrected himself. Brad. He could ask Brad. It wasn’t his first choice, but he’d shown to be a good man and a perfect roommate who cleaned up after himself, and he took great care of Charlie. Plus, he was smart. Much smarter than he let on, Noah had discovered.
“Can you come in?” he asked. It would be faster than him getting up.
“Erm, yeah, sure… Hold on a sec, I gotta get dressed.”
Noah frowned. Get dressed? Was the guy sleeping naked or something? That seemed unlikely, with Charlie in the same room. A minute later, there was a knock at his door.
“Yeah, come in already,” Noah called out, impatient.
Brad stepped in, fully dressed in jeans and a sweater, though still barefoot. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Indy called,” Noah said.
“Is he okay?” The worry in Brad’s voice was palpable, and it reinforced Noah’s decision to ask Brad for his opinion.