Night Watch

FIFTY-FIVE

I ran to the massive steel door as fast as I could. I pushed against it, just like I did at the door of Luc’s home the night this all began one week ago. Nothing gave, and I didn’t know which lever to touch or pull to get the lock to respond to me.

I turned my head and saw Danton eyeing me, having rounded the corner to get away from Mike.

He was coming in my direction, still almost thirty feet away down the long corridor, holding the shotgun with both hands. Behind him, Mike stuck his head out and pointed his revolver at Danton.

Before he could take aim, Danton darted into one of the side aisles. Mike moved cautiously into the center corridor, inching his way forward.

“Look for a panic button, Coop,” he called out to me. “There has to be one somewhere.”

I didn’t want to take my eyes off Mike, for fear that Danton would shoot or charge toward him. I stepped backward toward the door, then glanced from side to side to see if there was anything as obvious as a panic device.

Before I heard the noise, I could see the enormous rack behind Mike’s back-almost to the ceiling of the vault, at least fourteen feet high-begin to tilt. Danton must have been pushing at it. I screamed to warn Mike, but the wine cartons began to fall off the uppermost shelves, crashing to the ground all around him as he covered his head with his hands.

The wine was as red as blood, spilling out and gushing from the broken glass as it cascaded over other cases and onto Mike’s head and body.

“Are you okay?” I yelled out to him.

“Keep it up, kid. You know I’ve got a thick head.”

There was no way Mike could free himself from the cartons and bottles fast enough to follow Danton. I couldn’t see Danton, of course, but I could hear movement as he seemed to be struggling with something-maybe another heavy table or piece of furniture-deep in the row into which he had receded.

I turned around to examine the sides of the great door more closely. Off to my left was a small yellow box, the size of a light switch pad. I tugged at the cover and pulled it open. Inside was a black button with the word ALARM written below it.

I pressed the button, half-expecting something to ring inside this airtight space, but there was no sound. I pressed it again, with no idea who might be summoned, if the device was even connected to anyone in the outside world-on or off the grounds of Stallion Ridge.

Now I returned my attention to Mike, who was on his feet, digging his way out of the debris around him. I started to move toward him, but he held out his left arm, motioning me to stay in place. The revolver was in his right hand.

There were two distinct sounds I could hear. The farther one came from Josh Hanson, moaning as though he was still immobilized by pain. The other must have been Peter Danton, dug in behind the overturned shelves of wine, but making noise as though he was scraping something with the end of the shotgun.

I needed to take cover, but there were so few places that afforded it, and I didn’t know whether there were openings within any of the other rows in this bizarre maze. I feared that Danton would emerge from some part of this hideaway which he knew so well, ready to shoot his way out.

Each time Mike took a step to position himself closer to the row into which Danton had disappeared, the glass and cardboard beneath his feet gave his movement away.

“Come on out, Danton,” he called. “I got you trapped in there. I can wait you out all night.”

Mike was trying to peer between the metal racks to look for Danton, so he was no longer paying attention to me. I crouched down and quickly ducked over into the first aisle to my right-Danton was off somewhere to the left-and got down on one knee. If I could eventually move closer to Mike, maybe I could help him draw a bead on his human target.

The scraping noise stopped. Suddenly, there was a blast from the shotgun, aimed in Mike’s direction, that sounded like cannon fire because of the confines of the shelter.

My hands reflexively flew up over my ears, and it looked as though the pellets had shattered another dozen bottles of some ridiculously expensive vintage.

Mike swiveled quickly again-obviously safe-and flattened himself against the wooden wine crates that bordered the adjacent row of shelves.

As I readied myself to go forward to help him, I could see a flash of steel out of the corner of my left eye, as though something on the door was in motion.

I froze in place, watching the enormous handle-the size of a car’s steering wheel-turn in a circle, around and around again.

“Mike!” I called out, torn between diverting his attention from Danton and needing to let him know that someone was about to open the vault door.

“Stay back,” he said. “Get way back in that aisle, will you?”

Danton fired again, this time spraying the ceiling with shotgun pellets. He was laughing as he spoke. “Find the alarm, did you, Alex? Who do you think is going to get here first? The town police or my foreman?”

Terrified that someone who worked for Peter Danton would be the next man through the door, I kept my eyes riveted on the steel handle. The soundproofing of the shelter made it impossible to hear anyone or anything from outside.

I was so focused on its gyration that I nearly jumped out of my skin when Mike fired his gun. When I turned my head, I could see another bottle smashed by his bullet. This time, a fine white powder-cocaine, no doubt-poured over the side of the divided vessel, like grains of sand running through an hourglass.

Why was Mike wasting a bullet that we might desperately need in the coming seconds?

“Here goes your fortune, Danton. There’ll be blow all over the floor of this goddamn place,” he said. “What vintage is it? Château Calamari 2012?”

Danton fired again, this time lowering his aim to try to get a piece of Mike.

I directed my attention back to the steel entry. The handle was still, but someone was pushing against the door. As it opened into the room, the man who’d been pressing on the door fell forward onto the ground, grabbing his left leg as he rolled on his right side.

He was dressed entirely in denim-blue work shirt and jeans-and I guessed him to be one of the Stallion Ridge staff. He was bleeding profusely from his leg, and although the soundproofing kept his voice from penetrating the space before the door opened, he was howling now.

Behind him, standing in the doorway with a rifle pointed directly at Mike, was Gina Varona.