Shadow of Betrayal (37 page)

“Petersen and Linden are on their way to you.”

“Good.”

Quinn wanted to peer through the crack to see if he could get a look at what was going on, but he resisted the urge, and instead held the door steady so that Tucker would have no reason to notice it wasn’t closed.

Tucker continued past without breaking stride. Quinn waited until the footsteps began to recede, then pulled open the door and looked out.

Tucker had almost reached the west end of the hallway where it turned to the south.

Quinn looked back at Nate. “Twenty minutes,” he whispered, then began following the Australian.

Tucker couldn’t help feeling a bit of respect for his captive. The man was good. He’d clammed up tight and was refusing to speak again.

“Torture, is that what you’re waiting for?” Tucker asked the man. “Maybe some bamboo shoots under the fingernails? A few good kicks to the kidneys?”

The man did what he’d been doing for the last fifteen minutes. He smiled, a grotesque fake smile that made Tucker want to pistol-whip him.

“Well, hate to disappoint,” Tucker said. “But torture’s not something I’m into.”

This time he was the one who smiled, then he moved his gun away from his side and shot the man in the knee.

“Oh, wait,” Tucker said as the man howled in pain. “I forgot, I am into torture. I just don’t like to work at it.”

He shot the man in the other knee.

The prisoner screamed, then fell off the chair onto the floor.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tucker said.

The man writhed in pain, unable to respond.

“Perhaps I’ll do your elbow next. Is that what you want?”

“No,” the man gasped. “Please.”

“You answer my questions, and we’ll bind those up for you. Give you a little something for the pain, too. How’s that sound?”

“Please,” the man repeated.

“Who are you?”

“Furuta,” the man said, his voice labored. “Kevin Furuta.”

“All right, Mr. Furuta. This is progress. Who do you work for?”

“Please. My legs. Help me.”

“You answer my questions first, remember? Questions with an
s.
That makes it plural. You know what plural means, right?”

“The Agency,” Furuta said. “I work for them.”

“Now, that’s interesting. Why would the CI-fucking-A have an interest in us?”

Furuta said nothing.

Tucker raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s arm.

“Come alone, did you?” Tucker asked.

“No,” Furuta said.

But the answer came too fast, and Tucker knew it was a lie.

“There’s a strike team waiting close by. If they don’t hear from me soon, their orders are to attack.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Where did you get that line? Out of some fucking Bruce Willis film? You’re alone, Mr. Furuta. And you’re royally screwed.”

“No. Really, they’re there.”

“Enough,” Tucker said.

He shot the man in the left elbow. Furuta screamed again, then fell silent. Tucker kicked him to see if he was still conscious, but the man had passed out.

“Patch him up?” Petersen asked.

“Fuck no,” Tucker said. “Let him bleed out. He’s no use to us anyway. Even if the CIA is interested in us, we’ll be gone before they can do anything about it. You’ve got to love bureaucracy.”

Linden opened the door and let Tucker pass through first. Once they were all in the hallway, Tucker glanced back at the room Marion Dupuis was in.

“Are we bringing her along?” Petersen asked.

“No,” Tucker said. “Leave her to rot. She’s caused us enough problems.”

“
You’re
in a generous mood tonight,” Linden said.

“Thanks for noticing.”

They exited the short hallway and shut the door behind them.

MARION HAD HEARD THEM BRING THE OTHER ONE
in. At first she thought they were coming for her again. Either they had decided it was time for more questions, or had realized she had nothing to offer so were coming to get rid of her. Oddly, it was the former she feared most. At least if they had decided to kill her, she’d have nothing to lose. She could fight with all she had left, and if by some miracle she freed herself, she could try to find Iris. She knew there was zero chance of that happening, but she clung to the idea, thinking maybe, just maybe …

She had pressed her ear against her door, hoping to hear what their intentions were. But the men had not come to her cell. Instead, she heard another door open down toward the main exit. Feet scuffled across the floor, then someone barked, “Get the fuck in there.”

This went on for over a minute. A struggle of some sort. That much was obvious. It ended with a smack and a grunt. Then the door slammed closed.

“Asshole!” someone yelled. The voice had come from inside the hallway.

“Chill,” a second voice said.

“You see this? I’m bleeding.”

“Just a scratch.”

“Fucking asshole!” the first voice yelled again. “When we get the word, I want to be the one who offs him.”

“Come on,” the second voice said.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, then shut. A second later, all was quiet again.

Another prisoner, she thought. Somebody else with a child? Some one who had been able to put up more of a fight than Marion had?

When they had taken her out earlier, she had counted two other doors, both on the same side of the hallway as the one to her cell, and behind them rooms she imagined were very much like her own. The door that had slammed shut hadn’t sounded close enough to be from the room next door. So whoever their new captive was, he or she had to be in the room nearest the exit.

If there was just some way she could communicate with him. She thought for a moment, her eyes searching the blackness for an answer. The idea that came to her wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

She removed her tennis shoes, then began tapping one against the metal door. Maybe the other person would be able to hear it.

Tap-tap-tap.

Silence.

Tap-tap-tap.

Still nothing.

Tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap—

She stopped. Had she heard something?

She waited, but the only thing she heard was her own breathing.

Tap-tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap—

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

Marion almost cried. The other person had heard her.

For the next five minutes they tried to communicate with each other, tapping back and forth but with no more meaning than an
acknowledgment that they knew the other was there, confirming that they were not alone, but little more.

The other prisoner’s responses began to lag, then finally stopped altogether. Marion continued tapping for several minutes, trying to get him to return her signal, but he had either lost interest, or worse, lost consciousness.

As a last resort, she found the crack between the door and the frame with her finger, then moved her mouth over.

“Can you hear me?” she yelled.

But she knew it was useless. Where the door had transmitted and amplified the tapping of her shoe, it also acted as an effective buffer, bouncing her voice back into the room and letting very little of it pass through.

She slumped to the floor, knowing that nothing had changed for her. In thirty minutes, in an hour, in a day—at some point they
would
come for her. She stared at the floor, almost numb to the possibility now.

When the hallway door opened again sometime later, she thought this time was it. Her turn to die. Only once again it was the door at the other end of the hallway that opened, not hers.

She could hear raised voices, but could not make out the words. She figured they were giving the new prisoner the same treatment they had given her.

Then a loud crack reverberated down the hall, and a few seconds later, another.

Gunshots. She had heard them in Africa, only more at a distance. Here the source of the sound was only a couple dozen feet away at most, and the metal hallway didn’t help, enhancing the noise instead of dampening it.

Marion scrambled into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest and pressing her hands against her ears. She didn’t want to hear the screams of pain, but they seeped through her fingers anyway.

When she thought it was over, a third gunshot rang out.

This time she was the one who screamed.

•    •    •

Quinn almost blew it at the last turn. Tucker had stopped just ten feet away, in front of a door. Two others were standing there with him. Quinn pulled back before any of them could see him.

If they exchanged any words, Quinn couldn’t hear them. What he did hear, though, was the door opening, and the men passing through. Once the door closed, he peeked around again.

The corridor was empty. He waited a moment to see if they were coming right back out, then stepped around the corner and approached the door. Like the others he had passed, it appeared solid. There was a small, faded metal sign attached to the wall next to the door. Etched in it were the words:
HOLDING CELLS.

Looked like he’d found where they’d taken Furuta.

Quinn glanced around. There were several other doors along this stretch of corridor. He approached the one that was directly opposite and placed his ear against it. He could hear nothing. As he started to open the door, he heard a muffled gunshot behind him. Then another.

Son of a bitch
, Quinn thought. Had they just shot Furuta? If so, the agent was either dead, or close to it. And there was nothing Quinn could have done about it.

He yanked the door in front of him open, hoping he’d find an empty room. It was a small space. Big enough only for the built-in desk and metal bunk missing a mattress at the other end. A guard’s room that didn’t look like it had been used since the base had been decommissioned.

Quinn ducked inside and closed the door, sealing himself in darkness. He was there less than a minute when he heard another shot.

“Nate, can you read me?” he said.

Dead air.

“Nate?”

“I can hear you,” Nate said. The signal was weak.

“Okay. Stand by. I might need your help.”

“Copy that.”

The sound of a door opening into the corridor kept Quinn from saying anything else. He leaned forward, listening.

“You two go help Mr. Rose.” It was Tucker again. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes. Want to check in with the gate first.”

There was a grunt of assent, then the clacking of feet on the metal floor walking away. By the sound of it, they were heading back in the direction Quinn and the man had come.

“Unfriendlies heading your way,” Quinn said. “Keep your head down.”

“Copy that,” Nate said.

Quinn knew every second counted. If Furuta was injured, he would need immediate attention. Still, Quinn waited a full minute before he opened the door and stepped back into the hallway.

He hesitated at the door to the holding cells, knowing there was a possibility someone was stationed inside. He tightened his grip on his gun, then pressed down on the lever and opened the door.

Inside was a short hallway with three doors down the left side, but no sentry. Quinn stepped through and closed the door behind him.

There were numbers painted on each of the doors: 1, 2, and 3. Cells, Quinn knew. There were no locks, because none were needed. The way the doors latched would keep anyone inside from being able to get out.

He unlatched door number one and pulled it open.

Right on the first try.

Furuta lay in the middle of the floor, a bloody mess. His knees had both been blown out. He had another injury, too, but Quinn couldn’t see where it was at first. Somewhere on his torso or arms. His shirt was soaked with blood.

His elbow, Quinn realized. He kneeled down next to the man and felt for a pulse. It was there, but faint, and disappearing fast. The man was bleeding out.

Quinn yanked the laces from Furuta’s shoes. He used one for each leg, tying them tightly around the thighs just above the damaged knees. He knew it was futile, but he had to try. As he searched for something he could use on the man’s arm, Furuta’s eyes opened.

“Hold on, buddy,” Quinn said.

He pulled off one of Furuta’s socks, but before he could wrap it around Furuta’s bicep, the man stopped him.

“Who are … you?” Furuta whispered.

“Peter sent me. I’m here to get you out.”

“No … your name.”

“Quinn.”

Furuta actually smiled.

“Just be quiet and let me get you patched up.”

“Too tired,” Furuta said. “Won’t… work.”

The man’s eyes drifted shut as Quinn tightened the sock around Furuta’s arm. He then stood up and moved back into the small hallway.

“Nate, I’m going to need your help.”

“Where are you?”

Quinn gave him directions. “Have the others passed your position?”

“Two minutes ago. No noise in the hallway now.”

“Okay. Be careful. I don’t think there’s very many of them, but there’s enough.”

“Copy that.”

Quinn pulled out his phone. Full signal strength. There was definitely some sort of antenna set up throughout the facility.

He didn’t want to make this call, but he had no choice now.

The call rang only once before it was picked up.

“Where are you?” Orlando said.

Quinn hesitated. “Inside Yellowhammer.”

“Inside?”

He could tell she wanted to say more, but was holding back.

“I need your help.”

“Tell me.”

The shift was amazing. From pissed to all business in a split second. She was a pro, after all, though Quinn knew at some point in the near future pissed would make a harsh return.

He told her where he’d left the car, then gave her a quick overview of the outside area surrounding Yellowhammer.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” she said, then hung up.

Quinn stepped back into the room and checked Furuta’s pulse again. Still weak.

“Hey,” he said as he moved Furuta’s chin back and forth. “I think maybe you should try to stay awake.”