by J. N. Chaney
Midway through the hallway, I stopped at the central service stairwell—Rachel’s ticket up and my ticket down. Before I entered, however, I tapped the Down button on the elevator beside it, just to see if it was operational. When none of the normal indicators illuminated, I took that as a sign that it, too, had been compromised. “Looks like it’s leg day,” I said to Rachel.
“I thought you said we couldn’t use the elevators anyway?” she asked.
“I did. But it never hurts to double check.”
“Ah,” she said with a frown.
“Was that a hint of disapproval?” I asked, trying to help her ease up a little. The poor lady was still wound up tight.
“You just seemed so confident back there,” Rachel said. “You know, about taking the stairs and not the elevators.”
“Let’s just call it force of habit for checking,” I said.
“Force of habit,” she said.
I opened the door into the stairwell and said, “After you.”
Once we were both inside, I helped the door shut without a noise, and then looked up through the central gap between the flights of stairs. I had a dizzying view of thirty floors straight up and another thirty straight down.
“You okay there, Flint?” Rachel asked. Her voice sounded like it was taking pity on my sudden vertigo.
“Yeah, fine,” I replied, and then looked back at her. “You ready?”
She nodded. “Hey. In case I don’t see you again, I just wanted to say… thanks.” She pushed her hair behind her ears.
“Sure, yeah.” Suddenly, the thought of not seeing her again filled me with a deep sense of longing. It felt awful. And distracting. I needed to get clear of this woman, fast. “You’re welcome. You just stay out of sight, and everything’s going to be okay.”
Rachel stepped toward me and kissed me on the cheek. Her lipstick smelled like berries. Definitely not helping. “Stay safe, Flint,” she said.
“You too.”
Rachel turned and headed up the first flight of stairs. She hiked her dress up as her bare feet padded along the treads. A moment later, and she was out of view.
Eh, I thought, good riddance. The fewer distractions I had, the better. It’s time for only ugly hostages, I thought to myself, and then immediately regretted it.
The first few flights were easy enough. Working with gravity was always a win. But after a while, my thighs began to burn. “Just keep going, Reed,” I said, willing myself to move faster.
I rounded landing after landing, descending further into the sub-building. While I couldn’t see it, I knew I’d left the safety of Sellion City’s platform and was now in a structure that was suspended in open sky. The thought made me uneasy, even though I knew this building was just as safe as any other.
My arrival at sub-floor twenty-six couldn’t have come too soon—my legs screamed for a break. I reached up and touched the floor’s numbered placard as if finishing a long-distance run. Hopefully, I’d be able to restore power to the elevators. Because going back up the stairs was going to be a bitch.
I took another thirty seconds to catch my breath, then withdrew my weapon. I cracked the stairwell door open and peered out. Instead of the red emergency lights, construction lights bathed the floor in white light. I listened for any movement, but the place seemed deserted, so I stepped through the doorway and crouched along the wall.
I oriented myself in the wide open space. A bank of windows lined the far wall, looking out into the murky black of night. Several wall frames and glass panels had been erected, while translucent plastic hung from various sections of the ceiling. Bundles of cable hung down, running along the ground, and disappeared into floor grates. The vault’s vestibule was to the north and—if my sense of direction was right—I’d come out of the service stairwell facing east. Which meant the vestibule was to my left, one floor down.
I stepped around some sheets of hanging plastic and found an open access panel that led into the cavity beneath the floor. I removed my flashlight and powered it on. The beam penetrated the space below, revealing a crawl space just large enough for me to fit. I holstered my pistol and crawled into the cavity, inching my way forward on hands and knees. Just ahead, I saw what I’d come for: a metal air duct.
“Bingo,” I said, wiping some drops of sweat from my forehead. I passed my flashlight over the surface, looking for an access grate. And there it was, to the right about five meters down. I’d have to crawl over several bundles of wire, but it wasn’t impossible.
I struggled for about thirty seconds, laboring through the electronic weeds, but I finally rolled to a stop on my back less than a meter from the access grate. Fortunately, the grate was clipped on, not screwed, and pulling it off was easy. I decided to remove my shoes and everything else hard on my belt. The only thing I chose to keep was my flashlight. I even left my pistol behind, which was probably stupid, but I couldn’t risk it bumping into the metal duct work. I’d be a sitting duck in the ceiling if the perps discovered me, so what good would it do to fire a few rounds back? I opted for stealth over armament.
My uniform got caught twice as I tried entering the vent, snagging on a sharp fold in metal. When I jerked the snag free, the metal tore into the skin on my side. I grimaced, fighting the pain with a curse. That was when I heard my expletive bounce down the shaft.
Shut up, Reed, I scolded myself.
I touched my side and felt something wet—blood. I didn’t imagine it was a bad cut, but it sure hurt like hell. I ignored the burning sensation in my side and tried to visualize the shaft in relation to the floor below. Left—the vestibule was to the left. So I turned and began to crawl.
My movements were awkward at first as my arms and legs fought against one another. I struggled to keep the flashlight in a usable position as well. But after several seconds, I found a rhythm and started moving along the vent easily enough.
I did my best to move as quietly as possible, trying not to dent the duct as I went. I found that if I kept my hands and knees wide, my weight stayed away from the more flexible center sections and made less noise. I’d gone no more than twenty meters when I heard a loud thump from somewhere up ahead.
I froze instinctively and shined my light forward. But there was nothing there except more empty ductwork. Thump. Thump-thump. There it was again, followed by people talking. I was getting close. I switched off my flashlight and let my eyes adjust to the blackness. After a few seconds, I noticed a faint light up ahead. It was coming from a series of small vents in the floor.
“Gotcha,” I whispered. I stowed my flashlight on its loop and started moving again, cautious not to make a sound. I moved steadily forward, inching toward the light, until my face passed over the first vent.
Below me was a wide lobby with white marble floors and dark wood trim. The emergency lighting had been turned off and regular lighting restored. I recognized the vestibule instantly, remembering that it had been decorated more fashionably than any apartment I’d been in. Suits of some civilization’s ancient armor stood in glass cases, old paintings lined the walls, and fancy glass tables and chairs were arranged in small groupings ideal for… for whatever elitists did in a space like this. Admire their credits on data pads? How was I supposed to know?
Enforcers worked on opening the large cases in the middle aisle while several more crates stood to the side, untouched. They opened the first few cases to reveal some tech I couldn’t quite make out. But as the men moved out of the way, I noticed the components of… a laser. A big one.
Were they going to try and burn their way through the vault? I figured there were safeguards against such attempts, but—hell, anything was possible. I was just a stubborn old security guard desperate to pick up a second shift. The important thing was knowing that the thieves were, indeed, after the credits. And I hardly blamed them. The encrypted credit keys in that vault would make someone richer than… well, really rich was all I’d been told. Rich enough to spend a fortune every damn day and, after fifty
years, never even come close to scratching the surface. Must be nice, I thought.
I looked for Oubrick but counted only five men. Maybe he’d stayed behind in the lobby? Nah, he’d be more interested in the vault. So where was he?
I decided to move further down the duct to the next vent grate. The mastermind was no doubt eyeing the vault for himself. I started moving again, careful where I placed each hand and knee. I passed two more vents five meters apart before spying Oubrick. He stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the vault.
“Aren’t you a beauty,” he said. Since no one else was around, I guessed he was talking to the vault. It was a hulking black mass of a metal said to be impregnable. Only a small access screen interrupted the otherwise ominous surface.
Oubrick stepped forward and placed a hand on the black surface. “Shall we dance?” he asked, barely loud enough for me to make out.
Man, this guy had issues.
Another thief walked up behind Oubrick. “Sir,” he said, “we’re about ten minutes away.”
“Good, Rommel,” Oubrick said, turning to eye his henchman. “Send Fabian and Nico.”
To do what? I wondered.
“Understood, sir.” Rommel turned and walked back in the direction of the cases.
Just where do you think you’re going? I wondered.
Unable to turn around, I crawled backward, leaving Oubrick to fondle his pending conquest. Retreating was definitely harder than moving forward. Still, I was able to make good time and reappeared over the first vent in about fifteen seconds.
I looked down to see Rommel speaking to two of the four remaining bruisers. I assumed these were Fabian and Nico. Committing their names to memory was a skill I’d picked up while on the force. Information was a cop’s greatest asset, and names were high up on the list.
Rommel handed the two men large duffle bags. “You know what to do,” he said. “Make it quick.” Then he indicated his in-ear comm. “You encounter any problems, call it in.”
“Copy that,” said the first man, most likely Fabian.
“Good,” replied Rommel. “Head out.”
The two grunts turned, heading in the direction of the main elevators. Hoping to see what floor they were heading to, I decided to shuffle backward. But in my haste to catch up with them, my knee strayed too far into the center of the duct and made a loud kuh-thunk as it pressed and depressed the sheet metal.
I froze. I was close enough to the next vent to see Fabian and Nico turn and look up.
“You hear that?” Fabian asked.
“Yup,” Nico answered.
“Hey, Rommel,” Fabian said, pointing toward the duct.
“What is it?”
“Something’s up there.”
I couldn’t see Rommel, but the thought of him looking in my direction—maybe even pointing a rifle my way—was not comforting.
“Erikson, go check it out,” I heard Rommel say.
Damn. Time to move.
5
I made it three more meters before my knee dented the damn duct again. Shouts came from below. They next thing I knew, automatic weapons fire erupted from the vestibule. Holes of light tore open in the duct’s floor as bullets ripped across the space I’d occupied a second before.
I backpedaled as fast as I could, dropping my flashlight. The sound of the weapons fire amplified in the duct, making my ears ring. My hands and knees pounded the sheet metal as I moved backward. I was pretty sure I was beyond the hallway now.
Nope! More holes appeared about half a meter from my left hand and pinged against the flashlight. The cylinder spun while the glass on the end shattered. Bullets chewed up the handle and made the device hop.
I forced myself to move faster, knowing I had to get clear of the hallway. Sweat made my hands slip. More rounds stitched their way closer to me until the groupings held short about ten centimeters from my fingertips. I stared at the growing hole until the gunfire finally ceased. I’d reached the safety of the wall. But there was no time to celebrate. Someone—Erikson—had been sent to investigate, and he’d be on my floor any minute.
I pushed myself toward the access grate and then backed out, cutting my calf on the same sharp edge I’d cut my torso on. The pain was intense, the cut probably much deeper than the first. But I suppressed the burn. Right now, flesh wounds were the least of my worries. I only had time to grab my pistol—choosing to leave my shoes and data pad behind—before wrestling my way back through the nest of wires and toward the open panel in the floor.
By the time I pulled myself out of the crawl space, I was panting, drenched in sweat. Adrenaline had given me the boost I needed to make it this far, but coming down off that high was going to be a bitch. For now, I had a fight to prepare for.
Erikson would most likely emerge from the service stairwell. Which meant I needed cover. Fast. I darted toward a shipping crate but then thought better of it—it was an obvious choice for cover. Instead, I opted for a collection of construction materials. They provided less protection, but I still had a good line of sight toward the stairwell.
No sooner had I lay prone than the service door swung open. I peered around the corner to watch as Erikson emerged, assault rifle up, scanning for targets. Fortunately, he was alone. Maybe they figured they’d killed whatever was in the duct and this was just a search for the body. Still, by the look of Erikson, he wasn’t taking any chances. The gunman was all business, face stern, body tense.
I brought my pistol around and started to sight in on the man. As long as he stayed near the elevators, I had a clear line of fire. But at this distance, I’d be lucky if I nicked him. The best case scenario was that he moved in my direction, closing the distance, and giving me a better shot.
As fate had it, he did start moving closer—first to the crates, and then in my direction. He was… tracking something… on the ground. I followed his eyes and saw a trail of dark fluid…
Was that blood? And it led right to me. Son of a bitch!
Erikson looked up just as I fired a round toward his chest. The shot didn’t faze him as he leveled his assault rifle on me and fired. Bullets whizzed over my head and glanced off the floor beside me. I ducked for cover as more rounds pelted the construction materials, showering me with bits of debris. The sound was deafening as Erikson unloaded half a magazine on me. I needed to move.
Across from me was a half-constructed office, probably serving as the foreman’s headquarters for this floor. I decided to make a break for it. As Erikson paused to investigate his handiwork, I blindly fired two shots in his direction and then took off running. My foot slipped in something wet, causing me to stumble. Erikson was late to his trigger and his shots narrowly missed me as tumbled into the office.
“Come back here!” Erikson yelled. He sounded pissed.
I gained my feet but ducked as more bullets pierced the walls behind me. A glass pane exploded behind me as bits of glass pelted my back, stinging my skin even through my uniform. I dove behind a metal desk and knocked its chair over. Gunfire continue to pound the room, each bullet with my name on it—but none of them found me. At least not yet.
I peeked around the corner just as Erikson’s body filled the doorway, spraying the room with the remainder of his magazine. I covered my head. As soon as his magazine was expended, I rolled to my feet and charged. Glass cut my feet, sending jolts of pain up my legs. But I ignored it and fired three shots at Erikson’s chest. Then I lowered my shoulder and drove it into the center of his chest.
Erikson and I flew out of the office and onto the floor. I heard him give a loud grunt as the impact knocked the wind out of him. But this fight was far from over: Erikson was a big dude. Larger than I’d realized. He began to punch my sides with alternating blows, ribs cracking under the barrage. Then he grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head aside. More pain shot from the top of my head down my spine. My body wrenched sideways as Erikson placed his rifle’s muzzle under my chin and pulled the trigger. But in the confusion, he’d failed t
o reload. The gentle click of the weapon’s firing mechanism was my green light to strike.
I brought the butt of my pistol down on his forehead as hard as I could and felt the metal carve a divot in his bone. Erikson cried out and then batted my weapon away, landing a punch against my jaw. But I grabbed his throat with both hands and started to squeeze, pressing my thumbs into his trachea. I felt something pop, but Erikson threw my hands off and flipped me over his head with his legs.
My back slammed against the ground, stunning me. I blinked, then rolled over to see the bruiser stand. Blood streamed down his face, and he staggered a little. I noticed he was wearing some light armor under his torn dress shirt, but there was blood coming through his suit. Perhaps some of my rounds had hit him after all.
Erikson looked for another magazine, but when he couldn’t find one, he raised his rifle like a club and charged me. The first chop skimmed my knee as I dove away, sending a burst of pain up my leg. My assailant swung again, this time up and under my head, catching me in the temple. I saw stars as I rolled to a stop.
“You put up a nice little fight,” Erikson said, spitting blood on the floor next to me. I glanced up to see him adjusting his grip on his makeshift club. “But I think it’s time we end this.”
Just as he brought the weapon down, I rolled aside and kicked at his knee. The blow was true, producing a loud snap. Erikson fell, swearing as he hit the floor. He grabbed at his knee, which was all the distraction I needed. No way I was beating this guy in close quarters combat: I needed my pistol.
I looked in the direction the gunman had knocked my weapon and saw it resting beside one of the exterior glass windows. I pushed myself up and tried to run but grew dizzy. Again my feet slipped and sent me careening into a thin wall of plastic. I swiped at it, tearing it from the ceiling. I bounced off a crate on the other side of the faux wall and flipped to the floor. Everything in me hurt, but if I didn’t make it to my weapon, this guy was going to end me.