The Buried

CHAPTER 9

They picked up Mr. Vo’s RV from a vehicle storage facility in San Mateo. It was one of the smaller recreational vehicles made, a twenty-footer with a sleeping area above the driving cabin. It had been a gift from Orlando, in thanks for the years the Vos had spent helping her with Garrett and around her home. Her hope was that it would encourage the Vietnamese couple to get to know a bit of the States when they weren’t needed at the house.

At first, they only used it to visit a cousin in San Jose, a mere fifty miles from San Francisco. When Orlando had insisted they take a longer trip, they’d reluctantly headed off for a four-day tour of Yosemite National Park. The trip had been a success, and since then, the Vos had been to Death Valley, San Diego, Las Vegas, twice to the Grand Canyon, and had joined three RV clubs.

To avoid connecting Orlando’s car to the RV, they had dropped it off at the Amtrak station in San Jose before heading out. Orlando would have much preferred to be behind the wheel but Mr. Vo insisted on driving. She instructed him to head to Oakland.

Once they were on their way, she moved to the back where her son and Mrs. Vo were sitting at the dining table. Garrett’s eyes were droopy. He wasn’t used to getting up anywhere near this early, especially during summer vacation. Mrs. Vo, however, was bright and alert.

“How’s everyone doing?” Orlando asked.

“All okay,” Mrs. Vo said. While there was a hint of concern in the woman’s eyes, it wasn’t nearly as much as most people would have under similar circumstances. Mrs. Vo was used to Orlando’s crazy life, and this wasn’t the first time they’d had to leave someplace in a hurry.

Garrett, however, said nothing.

“Scooch,” Orlando told him.

He moved over so she could join him on the bench seat.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I’m going to miss swim practice.”

“We’ll look for a campground with a pool.”

“That’s not the same.”

She rubbed his hair. “I realize that, sweetie. It won’t be for long.”

He’d joined a swim team two years earlier and was already winning medals. Backstroke was his main thing, though he was more than decent at freestyle and butterfly, too. Breaststroke, well, he hadn’t quite figured that one out yet, and more times than not his awkward kick got him disqualified.

He leaned against her. “It’s your work, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t know specifically what she did, but he was aware she worked in a world far different from the ones his friends’ parents occupied.

“Why isn’t Quinn here?”

“He’s busy. But he knows what’s going on.”

“Is he hiding, too?”

She squeezed his shoulder. “You’re a little too smart for your own good, you know that?”

The baby chose that moment to adjust itself. Garrett jerked away from Orlando’s stomach, and then put his hand over the spot where his shoulder had been.

“Did you feel that?” he asked.

“Yeah. I felt it.”

“I wonder what he’s thinking,” he said, still touching the spot.

“Or she.” They had purposely decided not to know the baby’s sex ahead of time. Her son had told her he didn’t care which one the baby was, but she had a feeling he was hoping for a little brother.

“Yeah. Or she,” Garrett said. “Do you think she dreams?”

“I’m sure she does.”

“What about?”

“Us, probably.”

He wrinkled his brow. “She doesn’t know us yet.”

“Of course she does. She hears us talking all the time.”

That seemed to make him think. He leaned against her again, his head resting on her arm. A few minutes later he was asleep.

Orlando acted as his pillow until they neared Oakland. After she returned to the front, she guided Mr. Vo to an industrial park on the eastern edge of the city, and had him park in front of unit number twenty-four.

“We’ll be here at least fifteen minutes, if not longer,” Orlando told everyone. “Might be a good time for some breakfast.”

“Do you need help?” Garrett asked.

She smiled. “If I do, I’ll let you know.”

She exited the RV.

The entrances to all the other units led either into a small front office or directly into the unit’s main space. Her entrance, however, opened into a five-foot-long, three-foot-wide steel box. At the other end was another door that would only open when either Orlando or Quinn placed their right palm on the biometric scanner beside it. If anyone else tried, the metal box would seal shut and Orlando would receive notification of an intruder.

She pressed her hand against the glass, waited for the click, and entered. The unit was Quinn’s and her private warehouse. Secured cabinets full of weapons and ammunition and explosive devices lined the back wall. Through the center of the room ran three rows of heavy-duty shelves, holding a wide variety of other items that might be needed, such as communication gear, bugging equipment, and tracking devices. Many of the items had been created for specific one-time uses, but had been retained in case similar needs arose in the future.

Along the entire left side of the room was a workbench with drawers built underneath, holding a myriad of parts both mechanical and electrical. A pegboard covered with several hundred different kinds of tools hung on the wall above the bench.

She unlocked one of the back cabinets, removed several customized bags and a large plastic crate, and set them on the workbench.

She had no idea how long she would be away, or what she and the team might need, but given Helen’s disappearance, she knew the smart move was to prepare for the worst.

She started with the weapons, selecting handguns based on the preferences of Quinn, Nate, Daeng, and herself, and loaded them into the bag designed to carry them. She added an ample number of suppressors and four night scopes. In a second bag, she packed enough ammo to hold off a small army.

Next up was explosives. As tempted as she was to bring along some of the big stuff, she stuck only to small devices that could be used to blow open locks and windows. That finished off the soft-sided bags, and she moved all three over to the door.

Into the plastic crate went the electronics. She ended up going a little overboard and had to get a second box, but she’d rather have extras than end up cursing herself for what she didn’t bring.

Leaving the bags and the crates in the unit, she returned to the RV and borrowed the keys from Mr. Vo. The camper had plenty of storage cabinets accessible from the outside, but only the two at the back could also be reached from inside the vehicle, via hatches under the dining-area bench seats.

The Vos had stored a pair of folding chairs, a portable awning, and some blankets and pillows in Orlando’s desired spaces. She removed them and began the back and forth trips to bring all her things out.

One by one, she slid them into the compartments, pushing them as far back as possible. When that was done, she measured the height and width of the space, and retrieved the appropriately sized metal dividers from the unit. They were a near perfect fit, making the storage areas look smaller than they actually were and completely hiding her equipment from view. She repacked the Vos’ items in front of the dividers, and then made sure the shop was secured before climbing back into the RV.

Total elapsed time: twenty-three minutes.

“Breakfast,” Mrs. Vo said as Orlando closed the RV door. She was holding a plate with a thick omelet and a sliced banana.

“I don’t know if I can eat all that,” Orlando said.

“Not for you, for baby. You eat.”

“Okay, okay. But after we get going.”

Mrs. Vo frowned but held on to the plate.

Orlando looked past her to where Mr. Vo was sitting with Garrett. “Mr. Vo, do you need a little more time?”

The man stood. “No, no. Wait only for you. Where you want to go?”

Orlando had given that considerable thought as she’d loaded up the RV. Quinn might not need her help, but she wanted to be close enough to provide it if it turned out he did.

“North,” she said.

Helen woke to the smell of sweat and bleach.

As she opened her eyes, her lashes batted against the fabric of a bag that had been pulled over her head.

When did that happen?

The last thing she recalled was reaching for her gun.

Wait. There’d been a stinging sensation, on her…on her…

Where, she couldn’t remember.

Though it had been years since she’d done any fieldwork, she hadn’t forgotten the lessons she’d learned. Keeping her breaths even and her body still, she mentally checked for any injuries. She didn’t feel any pain beyond a dull headache, but she did discover she was restrained to a chair, unable to move her arms and legs.

Focusing outward, she tried to get a sense of her surroundings. Light did seep through the bag, but the fibers were woven tight together, keeping her from seeing anything. The light, though, was telling. It was neither particularly bright nor dim. If the room was small, a few lamps at most. If larger, maybe scattered overheads.

She listened for the sound of people, but all she could hear was her own pulse racing. She took a few deep, quiet breaths to slow her heart rate and tried again. This time she heard nothing but an empty space.

She wanted to scrape her foot on the ground and listen to how the sound reacted to the room. That would give her a better idea of its size, but doing so might alert her captors that she was awake. It turned out it wasn’t long before she learned the answer without even moving a toe. A door opened, ahead and to her right, the sound a good forty feet away. She was in a big room, then.

Heels clicking on concrete, or perhaps stone. A woman’s.

The door closed again, and the footsteps headed toward Helen at a relaxed pace. Ten feet away, they stopped for a couple seconds, and then something dragged across the floor and came to rest directly in front of Helen. A chair, she realized, as it creaked when the person sat.

In the silence that followed, a faint odor drifted off the visitor. A clean smell, more scented soap than bleach.

“I know you’re awake.” The woman had a French accent. “You have been for the last seven minutes.”

They must be monitoring my vitals, Helen thought. Perhaps a few of the restraints she’d detected weren’t restraints at all. With no reason to keep up the charade, she adjusted herself into a more comfortable position but did not say anything.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “I hate it when people try to play unnecessary games. It’s such a waste of time.” She paused. “So, Director Cho, where are they?”

Helen remained silent.

“The safe house you arranged for them to use was a ruse, was it not? Where did they really go?”

If Helen had any doubts this was about Danielle Chad, they were gone now. The only safe house she’d arranged recently was for Quinn, though she was surprised to learn he hadn’t gone there.

The chair groaned, and when the woman spoke again she was no more than a foot in front of Helen’s face. “Where are they?”

Though Helen’s extremities were tied down, her chest and shoulders were not, giving her room to move. The moment the last word left the woman’s mouth, Helen thrust forward with all her strength. Her aim was a bit off. Instead of smacking her forehead into the woman’s nose, she caught her interrogator on the cheek, but it was still a good, solid hit.

The woman grunted as she knocked against her chair.

Helen braced herself for her interrogator’s retaliation.

But she heard the woman stand. “Perhaps a little time will make you more cooperative.”

Helen heard the click, click, click of the woman’s heels heading across the room.

A few seconds later, she was once more alone.