Deep Black

78

“He had a way to use the air shaft,” Dean told Lia. “It runs along this wall somewhere.”

“How do you know?” asked Lia.

“Because if he chose his spot according to what the best sight line was, he would have gone higher.”

“Maybe he thought there were people there.”

“There weren’t, remember?”

“Maybe this door was easier to fix.”

“Nah.” Dean looked at the wall where the air shaft would be. It seemed solid, but maybe there was a trapdoor or something. He put his ear against it and began banging with his fist, looking for a hole.

“No,” said Lia.

“They’ll be waiting at the exits.”

“The roof?”

“Check with your gizmo.”

She fiddled with her screen while Dean looked for a hollow spot. There didn’t seem to be one, nor was there a closet.

So what was the dead bastard thinking? Maybe it did have to do with the door or the interior; maybe there was no partition in the other office.

Dean stepped out of the office, trying to put himself in the assassin’s head. He knew his business very well. The only thing that had tripped him up was something so far out of the range of possibilities that he never could have foreseen it — American agents trying to save a Russian president’s butt.

He’d definitely have had a slick way out.

The next office was on the corner of the building. Dean went to the door; it was unlocked. This office was very similar to the other, except that it had a window on the side. Dean stood in the middle of the room, his mind blank, as if the solution would just float into it. There were footsteps in the hallway — Lia’s. He turned, saw something coiled behind the door.

A short run of chain and a spike.

“What’s going on?” said Lia.

“It’s like a fire escape.” Dean grabbed the chain and went to the window. It opened easily. He looked below the ledge and found a small, deep hole; the spike went in easily. The chain fell to the ledge of the window below.

“Downstairs,” he said, turning back into the room. “His way out is downstairs. You go first.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, come on — the chain’s held by a spike. I’ll hold it up for you, then come out myself.”

Lia looked at him doubtfully but went to the window. Dean closed the door behind her, locking the latch. She was already outside by the time he got back, hanging off the ledge and trying the chain.

“I think it’ll pull right out,” she said.

“Yeah, probably,” said Dean.

“It only goes down to the next floor.”

“Yeah. Go.” He dropped to his knees and bent over, grasping the chain with both hands and trying to brace himself against the wall. “Go!”

“Hey.”

He looked up. Her face was next to his.

“Good luck,” she said. She leaned forward to kiss him.

He gave her a peck in return. “Go.”

“Some kiss, Charlie Dean,” she said, disappearing. “Work on it.”

She looked small, but her weight nearly pulled the chain out of his hands. He kept his head up, not watching. He heard her break the glass and the pressure released on his fingers.

Dean heard something in the hallway outside as he rose. The spike had bent slightly, but it was still in place. He slid over the side and started down. As his shoes hit the top pane of the glass he could feel the chain slip. He felt for the opening with his feet, got into the office, and tugged the spike out, letting the chain fall to the ground.

“Here,” said Lia. She was on the opposite end of the room, pulling at the wallboard. A piece of thick cellophane tape came off in her hand, revealing a seam; Lia pulled back and the board fell to the floor, revealing the metal of the air shaft. She started tapping to try to find the opening; Dean gave it a kick with his heel and the metal caved in on the side and bottom. He cut two of his fingers trying to get it out of the way; finally he just let it fall down the shaft.

“Up or down?” asked Lia.

Dean looked into the shaft. It was about three-foot square, a tight squeeze for his shoulders.

“Down, I think,” said Dean. “Because they’d go to the top, thinking he might run up the stairs.”

“Hold on,” said Lia. She took her handheld out, staring at it.

“Come on. Screw the high-tech crap.” Dean got into the hole and started downward. “We can’t wait.”

“They’re above,” she said. “Four men on the roof. At least two others on the top floor.”

“Good to know we figured it out,” said Dean. He sidled his way downward, slipping every third or fourth move. He soon realized that there were small connecting ducts and irregular joints that made it easier to get a grip; he began using them and made safer, though slightly slower, progress. For about the first fifty feet he descended in darkness. Then a pin of light played downward — Lia had retrieved a small flashlight.

It wasn’t much help at first; all it illuminated was more darkness. Finally the light made a kind of arrow below; it was the panel he’d kicked in, blocking their way.

Dean pushed it aside with his foot but couldn’t get it quite far enough away. He slammed it with his heel, but even though he bent it, the panel stubbornly continued to block the path. Finally he tried wedging it down, putting most of his weight against it. It slid a few feet, then got stuck again. Even with all of his weight he couldn’t budge it.

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

“Sshhh,” she hissed.

Dean kicked at it, then began to try to squeeze past. His legs hit something else.

They were at the bottom.

So where the hell was the door?

Was there a door?

“That flashlight,” said Dean.

“They’re up there.”

“Give me the light.”

She dropped it. He saw it at the last second and grabbed for it, but it kicked off his fingers and bounced on the ground. He had to contort his body to reach it; as he started to examine the shaft he heard the growls above them, curses in Russian.

Dean spotted a crack in the wall and pushed against it, but the metal didn’t give. He threw his head back and hit the wall — it gave a little.

He turned and looked at the metal behind him. It seemed solid, and while it did flex when he put his hand against it, there was no opening that he could find.

“Here,” Lia was saying. “Here.”

She was a few feet above him, in a hole.

“It’s here; it’s here,” she said, leaning down. But instead of trying to pull him up, she turned toward the top and fired her gun.

The rumble nearly broke his eardrums. Dean pushed upward, squeezing through the hole just as gunfire erupted down the shaft.

They were in a basement. Lia had another flashlight. No larger than a cigarette, its light played along the walls as she looked for some sort of opening. There were stairs upward, obviously back into the building. Another set led to the side, probably to an alley. Lia started for it and Dean began to follow, though he knew the Russians would be watching it.

“This would be a good time to call for backup,” he told Lia.

“I already have.”

Lia had reached the door when Dean saw a piece of plywood against the far wall. He ran to it and pulled it away.

There was a grate in front of a hole. It didn’t fit right; he pulled it away and tossed it down.

“This way,” he told Lia, ducking inside.