Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  “Okay, here’s the sealed portion of the mines,” Captain Every said, shining his flashlight on a padlocked yellow gate. Behind it lay a small, dusty chamber. With the thin metal bars of the grating across the opening, it almost looked like a dungeon cell. At the back wall, another tunnel led into darkness. The captain played his light back there, but the beam barely penetrated the gloom. “When a tourist got lost up there and died, they closed this off. If someone wanted to hide back there they’d need to get through this,” Captain Every said, shining the light on a padlock covered in dust and grime. Gripping the padlock, he gave it a tug to test it. “Locked.”

  “Who has keys?” Boone asked.

  “I have one and the Saba Conservation Foundation has another, but no one else. Let’s keep moving.”

  Johann and Captain Every led the way and Boone followed, the air becoming noticeably hotter. Boone suddenly stopped in his tracks as the lights of the others receded into the blackness ahead. Something… changed. He turned and slowly made his way back to the gate. Crouching down, he looked at the padlock. Sid’s father grabbed it… and after… something changed. He peered more closely. There. Two little spots of silver.

  “Boone?” Captain Every’s harsh whisper echoed from the tunnel ahead.

  Boone didn’t answer, focused on the lock. Lifting it in his hand, he spat on its flank and rubbed the dirty surface with a thumb. The dirt came right off, revealing the shiny silver of a brand-new lock.

  “Boone!”

  Boone looked toward the captain’s voice, reaching up to his headlamp. Finding the switch, he flicked it off and on. If the man they sought was behind this gate, Boone thought it best not to shout into an echo chamber about what he had discovered. When Boone’s face was illuminated by the returning men, he raised a finger to his lips, then defaulted by instinct to diver hand signals, pointing two fingers to his eyes, then pointing at the lock. Look there.

  Captain Every crouched and looked at the shiny lock as Boone rubbed more of the grime away. “That’s not the regular lock,” the captain said in a low voice. “And if Croc Johnson had changed it, he would have let us know and given us a new key.”

  “Someone covered it in dirt,” Boone said quietly.

  “Do we shoot it off?” Johann asked.

  “Too much chance of a ricochet,” Captain Every said. “I’ll have Sid radio for some bolt cutters.”

  “Not just yet,” Boone said, examining the rest of the gate. There were patches of rust in many places and the lock plate itself looked somewhat the worse for wear. “Johann, this is going to sound like an odd question. What size boot do you wear?”

  “Forty-four.”

  “European size, right? Umm… any idea…?”

  “Oh, in U.S. size? About an eleven, I think. Why do you want to know?”

  Boone looked with longing at Johann’s combat boots, knowing they would never fit his size thirteen feet. “Never mind. Was hoping for a little extra padding. I’ll just have to do this a bit differently. Stand back. And Captain, can you put your light on the padlock?”

  Crouching in the tunnel, Boone placed himself almost at the far wall across from the gate. Planting his hands on the ground, he stretched his long legs out, eyes on the lock plate. The martelo de negativa was considered one of the strongest kicks in all martial arts with regard to the amount of force striking the target. Executed from the ground with most of the body’s mass devoted to the kick, some practitioners were able to deliver nearly a ton of force. The problem here was that he was wearing sport sandals and it was usually the instep that struck the target. Boone wasn’t about to smash the top of his sandaled foot into metal, but the soles were quite sturdy, so he would need to pivot the ankle and focus the kick through the heel. No problem, he thought, though the strength of his conviction left a bit to be desired.

  Taking a moment to focus his mind, Boone took six deep breaths, ignoring the hint of sulphur in the air. Then he coiled his muscles and unleashed his body, swinging his legs up, the upper leg continuing through the air with a whoosh. The heel of his foot smashed into the plate to the left of the lock, the impact bending it and popping the other end free of the gate.

  “Ongelofelijk…” Johann exclaimed quietly, stepping forward to inspect the damage.

  Captain Every reached out and gave the gate a shove. It squeaked in metallic protest but swung inward. “Okay, if he’s back there he may have heard that, so let’s—”

  Suddenly, a blinding flash and earsplitting roar erupted from the tunnel on the far side of the gated chamber—the muzzle flash and reports from a semi-automatic rifle. Johann yelped in surprise, falling to the right of the opening. Boone grabbed Captain Every and hurled himself to the left side of the gate. Sparkling puffs of yellow sulphur and purple gypsum erupted from the tunnel wall opposite the gate as rounds tore into it.

  “Cack… that’s going to leave a mark,” the captain hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Where are you hit?” Boone asked urgently.

  “Arm,” Captain Every grunted, clearly in pain. “Lost my pistol…”

  “Johann? Are you hit?”

  A groan was the prone Dutchman’s only response. Boone’s headlamp could just make out the soles of the man’s boots further up the tunnel. The marine’s assault rifle was not in sight, but Captain Every’s service weapon lay squarely in front of the gate. Boone extended a long arm across the floor but that invited another burst of fire, and he swiftly pulled his hand back. Well, that’s not going to work. Boone focused his headlamp on the captain’s wound—there was a growing bloom of bright blood on the upper arm. From the distant entrance of the mine, they could hear Sid calling out.

  “Can you get back to Sid?” Boone asked.

  “Yes, I think so. But we can’t leave Johann.”

  “We won’t. Here, trade you.” Boone pulled the headlamp off and pushed it into the captain’s hands, scooping the policeman’s MagLite from the floor of the tunnel. “I’ll need this, too,” he said, plucking the flashbang from Captain Every’s duty belt as the man rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Pull the pin and toss it, just like a grenade,” the captain said quietly, his face clammy with sweat. “You’ll have one and a half seconds before it goes off.” He staggered away toward the entrance.

  Boone could hear movement in the tunnel beyond the chamber. He’s moving forward. Maybe I can throw him off. “Whoever you are,” he called out, “we just want the boy and girl back. You let them go, we let you go!”

  The sounds of movement stopped. “Girl und boy? Vat ze hell are you talking about?”

  Wait a minute, the shooter sounds… German? Then that means… he’s the other smuggler. “Listen, we’re not here for you. We’re looking for the man you brought over from Statia.”

  “He’s not here!”

  “That man is probably a murderer. Don’t protect him. His car is at the head of the trail.”

  “Vas? Gott verdammt, meine papers!”

  Boone heard the man’s footsteps again and he knew the smuggler was going to make a break for it, likely shooting Boone and finishing off Johann in the process. No more time. In an instant, he envisioned a sequence of actions and set them in motion. He tossed the MagLite toward Captain Every’s pistol, the flashlight’s beam facing the gate. He shut his eyes just before the expected burst of automatic weapon’s fire occurred. Boone was already pulling the pin on the stun grenade before the burst finished, opening his eyes for a brief moment as he tossed the device between the nearest bars of the gate, aiming for the mouth of the exit tunnel at the back of the blocked-off chamber. He turned away, clamping his eyes shut as hard as he could while pressing his palms over his ears with all of his strength.

  Despite these precautions, the explosion was deafening in the close confines of the mine, and the white flash of light was visible through his eyelids. Even with his ears ringing, he h
ad no trouble hearing a high, keening sound—the smuggler shrieking in agony. Opening his eyes, Boone sprang to the gate and kicked it sharply, sending it swinging back into the chamber with a crash. The MagLite was pointed into an empty corner of the room but in the edge of its beam, Boone spotted movement. The smuggler was clearly stunned and clawing at something on his face. Night-vision goggles! The explosion from the flashbang must have fried his retinas. On the floor lay an assault rifle, identical to the one they had found on the Wavy Davey when they’d gone after the submarine.

  “Meine augen!” the German shrieked, managing to tear the goggles from his head. Boone reached him in two long strides, scooping up the rifle and slamming the butt against the man’s temple. The smuggler crumpled to the floor. Got to see to Johann before I can deal with this asshole, he thought. Too bad I didn’t think to grab some cuffs off the captain. He dashed back to the gate but stopped when he heard the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun being racked. After a flash of fear that the mysterious blond man was in here after all, Boone suddenly remembered what Sid had been carrying. Then, the young Saban cop’s voice confirmed it.

  “Whoever you are, toss your weapon out and step into the tunnel!”

  “Sid, it’s Boone!”

  A headlamp flicked on and started toward the gate. “Boone! Where’s the shooter?”

  “He’s down. Behind the gate at the back of the room. Cuff him in case he comes to, but I’m guessing that flash bang scrambled his marbles pretty damn good. Me bashing him in the head probably didn’t do him any favors, either. I need to check on Johann!”

  “Ja, please do…” came a choked voice from down the tunnel. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Johann, thank God,” Boone said, crawling to the fallen marine. “You didn’t answer before. I thought maybe—”

  “I hit my head on the damn wall falling back from the shooting. Embarrassing, really.”

  “It’s pretty cramped in here—easy to see how it could happen. You’re not hit?”

  “No, don’t think so.” He retrieved his weapon and got to his feet. “I am okay to walk.”

  “Sid, how’s your dad?” Boone called out.

  “He’ll be fine. It was a through-and-through and he’s got direct pressure on it. Paramedics are on their way.”

  “Good. Okay, then, let’s grab that bastard and get the hell out of here.”

  “It’s not him,” Emily said, as they stood around the police cars at the dead end above the sulphur mine. The paramedics had taken Sid’s father away and the smuggler sat in the low grass on the side of the road, cuffed and sullen.

  “I know it’s not,” Boone said, looking at the man. “But he’s one of the smugglers who brought him over, so maybe he knows where he is.”

  “Vhat?” the smuggler shouted. His vision had more or less returned, but his hearing was another matter.

  “Do you know where the kidnapper is?” Boone said slowly and loudly. “The one you brought over from Statia.”

  “Nein,” the German said. “And I don’t know vere your missing people are. He never told me about any kidnapping. I paid him to bring me food und vater.”

  “What was his name?” Boone asked.

  “No idea. He never said and I never asked. I never let him past the gate. He was gruselig… How would you say? Creepy. I did not trust him.”

  Johann had been examining the smuggler’s night-vision goggles. “Boone, you are lucky these are a civilian model. Military-grade ones might have blocked the glare and protected him. He could have shot you before you reached him.”

  “Gunter Schleich,” Sid shouted, reading a card from the man’s wallet. “Where is your stash?”

  “I don’t know vat you are talking about.”

  “Really?” Boone said, amused. “Because your buddy Santiago said you took the other bag.”

  “Das Schwein!” Gunter cursed.

  “Thought so.”

  “We’ll find it,” Sid said. “Saba Conservation has people who know those tunnels as well as anyone. But that still doesn’t help us with the man they brought over.” He turned to the policeman who had joined them, a black Saban with a broad chest and well-formed arms. The man was going through the SUV’s glove compartment. “George, you find anything?”

  “Not much. No papers in da glove box. Dere some tarps aback and a painter’s bucket with some brushes and rollers.” He got out and slammed the passenger door, the sound seeming to knock a memory loose. “O-me-gracious, you know what? You know dat day you had us canvassing for witnesses up Ladder Road? I just figured out where I see dis auto.”

  “Where?” Sid asked urgently.

  The Servant was drenched in sweat by the time he climbed off the Middle Island Trail to the end of Ladder Road. He was only fifty yards from the trailhead when he stopped in his tracks. Flashing lights ahead. Voices raised. No! No, no, no, no! He quickly slipped into the thick greenery on the slope to his left and made his way closer.

  “It was parked right here, with tools and a stepladder,” George said after Sid pulled up behind the other policeman’s squad car and exited with Boone and Emily. The young Dutch marine who had stayed behind with Emily back at the sulphur mine was standing guard beside the constable, weapon poised in a ready position, finger resting against the lower receiver above the trigger. Boone had no doubt the man could bring it to bear in an instant. They had all driven across the length of the island and were now standing in the driveway of an unfinished cottage.

  Boone looked around. The overall feel was of a place that was having some maintenance done on it, but his gut told him otherwise. He stepped up to an unfinished wall and looked inside. There was nothing in view but some painter’s tarps and piles of lumber.

  The constable joined him. “It looked like dis when I was here before, canvassing da neighborhood. I called out but no one answered.”

  “Something…” Boone said, trailing off. There’s a lot of dust on the tarps in here. Except for… Not bothering with the doorway, he vaulted across a section of skeletal wall and into the interior, going straight to a clear plastic tarp that was hung along an interior wall. He pulled it aside. A door.

  The Servant reached a thick stand of elephant ears, the massive leaves of the plant providing excellent cover. He crouched, eyes on the cottage. Two police cars. A soldier stood out front, cradling an assault rifle across his chest. It looked like the same one who had been beside the Servant’s vehicle above the sulphur mine. No one else was in sight but there were two police cars beside the driveway.

  “She’s here!” a voice cried out. The soldier turned, nodding to someone inside the cottage.

  No! The Servant’s vision went white with rage. It’s too close! There’s no time! Without realizing he’d done it, his hand had found the taped hilt of the machete and drawn it from his backpack. If I can get that soldier’s weapon…

  A young policeman appeared inside the cottage beside an open section of wall, speaking to someone behind him. “No sign of the boy. Or the kidnapper.”

  If I’m going to do this, it has to be now! The Servant rose from his crouch… and froze.

  “Come on, easy does it. You’re safe now.” The feminine voice was soft and soothing. And British. Exiting the cottage, the beautiful little blonde emerged, her arms around a softly weeping figure.

  You. You… bitch! The Servant watched helplessly as the two young women were joined by two policemen and the tall, lanky man from before. All of you! In less than twenty-four hours, he would have been Ascending, all the signs pointing to a successful ritual, but now these people had ruined everything. He focused his frustration on the petite blonde, the one that looked so much like Lucy. And from inside his mind, a voice: All is not lost. The answer is right in front of you.

  The Servant uncoiled his muscles, sinking back into the greenery. Yes… it would be fitting. And perha
ps this was the plan all along. She was the perfect sacrifice, in his eyes. Perhaps those he served had been testing him, and now they had allowed his original Chosen to be rescued—and not rescued by just anyone. No, this all seemed… purposeful.

  He thought back to the snatches of conversation he had overheard from the girl and her two friends when they were having lunch. The English Quarter. She was staying in that neighborhood on the other side of Windwardside. But where exactly was the cottage? It had a name… what was it?

  Suddenly, a flash of movement caught his eye, and the Servant turned toward a yellow stand of black-eyed Susans. Above, clusters of red hibiscus flowers dangled down. The flash of movement happened again, this time coming to a relative stop, as an object came to a hover beside the flowers. A hummingbird. The Servant smiled. Once again, those he served had provided. Thank you. I remember now.

  “Dear me, that sounds positively awful,” Gordon Hollenbeck said, after Boone briefly described the battle in the sulphur mine. “You couldn’t pay me to go into those caves, with my claustrophobia.”

  “It’s true. He doesn’t even like to go into the dryer for the last sock,” Gerald teased.

  “It was only that one time!”

  Gerald winked at him before turning to Boone. “How’s your hearing?”

  “Pretty much back to normal. Can’t say the same for the smuggler.”

  “And they didn’t find his friend?”

  “He swears he didn’t know where the man was on the island. I got the impression he didn’t much care for him.”

  “I only saw him for about ten seconds and I didn’t care for him,” Emily muttered.

  The four were sitting in the little plaza by the Bizzy B, enjoying what might be the last fresh bread for a while. Irma was scheduled to arrive early the following morning. Already, the winds had picked up in Windwardside, though at the moment it was hard to believe there was a major Category 5 hurricane over the horizon. The bakery’s ovens had been working overtime, and Gerald and Gordon—or Double G, as Emily had taken to calling them—had procured an entire bag of croissants for the days ahead. It was almost noon. After the events of the previous day, Boone had called them to ask if they could nudge their early rendezvous to a bit later in the morning.