Zero Hour

FORTY-THREE

“This is a mine,” Kurt whispered to himself.

He’d found quarried-out sections, discovered a conveyor belt loaded with gravel and a series of pipes along the wall that probably ran electrical wire. He’d found picks and a jackhammer and wheelbarrows.

What a mine was doing hidden on Heard Island, Kurt didn’t know. Nor did it matter at the moment. His only concerns were finding Joe and Hayley, if they were alive, and stopping Thero no matter what.

He slipped off the heavy parka, stashed it, and pulled his backpack on once again. He began moving down the dark tunnel, his hand on the conveyor belt, his head ducked to avoid any dangerous outcroppings of rock he probably wouldn’t see until it was too late.

After passing several other areas that had been quarried extensively, he came to a larger room. This one was dimly lit by a pair of exposed bulbs.

The conveyor belt ended there, beside a group of large machines designed to crush and sort the gravel. He’d seen this kind of setup before. It was an underground diamond mine. Suddenly, he had a better idea how Thero was financing the operation.

He saw a door on the far side and crossed the room toward it. Just as he reached for the handle, the door moved, inching open. Kurt stepped back and raised the pistol as a trio of men came through.

“Don’t move!” Kurt growled.

The men froze in place, and a tense standoff ensued. Kurt might have drilled all three of them, but without a silencer the gunshots would have echoed through the cave and brought the rest of Thero’s men running.

As they stared at the gun, Kurt studied them. They carried sharpened staves made of crude metal instead of guns. Two of them appeared almost petrified, the third just as shocked but calmer.

“Put your weapons down,” he said, then added: “Quietly.”

They did as ordered.

Kurt nodded toward one of the rock-crushing machines. “Over there.”

The three men shuffled toward the machine. Kurt kept his distance in case they tried something rash.

“Two of you are going to end up tied to this machine,” he told them. “Whoever doesn’t want to spend the night like that can take me to Thero.”

“Take you to Thero?” one of them asked. He spoke with a South African accent.

“Who’s Thero?” another said with an Irish lilt.

“The man who brought you here,” the South African said.

“Quiet,” Kurt said. “Which one of you wants to show me the way?”

The three men looked at one another as if they were baffled by the question.

“Why would we take you?” the third man said.

“Because I have an appointment,” Kurt said, “and I don’t want to miss it.”

The confused look returned. Apparently, biting humor wasn’t their strong suit.

“You mean, which one of us wants to go with you and die first,” the South African said.

Kurt stared at him. The statement made no sense. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” the South African repeated.

Kurt felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. He took another look at the men. They were filthy, wearing rags. Their weapons were crude. Suddenly, it made sense.

“You three are miners here,” he said. “You’re trying to escape. Whose idea was it?”

Two of them pointed at the Irishman.

“Rats,” the Irishman replied. “The lot of you.”

A broad smile creased Kurt’s face. “More like three blind mice,” he said. “The question is, exactly where were you running to?”

For the next few minutes, Kurt pried information out of the miners, learning their names and a little bit about the operation. Masinga, the South African, had been there right from the start.

“Eight months ago, I stole a key from one of the guards,” he explained. “But he never reported it lost because Thero would kill him for losing it.”

“Took a lot of patience not to use it right away,” Kurt noted.

Devlin, the Irishman, spoke up. “Apparently, patience runs in his family.”

Masinga smiled. “I hoped a day would come when escape would mean more than just dying in the cold. Devlin here says he came on a ship. He says he knows how to get back to it.”

“I hate to tell you,” Kurt said, “but you’re going the wrong way. Nothing but excavation tunnels back this way.”

The other two prisoners looked menacingly toward Devlin.

“That’s what you get for listening to me,” Devlin said. “I’ve been here only two days.”

“So what’s the deal with this mine anyway? I don’t recall Thero having any mining expertise.”

“He has others,” Masinga explained. “It’s an uneasy relationship between him and the overseers. He keeps them on a short leash, yanking their chains from time to time, but for the most part he leaves them alone. They work us and sell the diamonds. Thero lets them keep a cut, or so I’ve heard.”

“Slave labor,” Kurt noted. “That’s one way to bump up the profit margin.”

“As we die off, they bring in more,” Masinga added. “Kidnapping and luring in people who have little else in the way of opportunity.”

Kurt understood. It was a whole new reason to put Thero out of business, but it ran a distant second to saving Australia. “Any new arrivals in the last few hours?”

“Are you looking for someone specific?” Devlin replied.

“I started out with some friends,” Kurt said. “Thero’s men attacked us. We got separated. I think they were probably captured.”

“That’s no good,” Masinga said. “Thero will torture them, until they give in or die.”

Kurt studied Masinga’s face. His nose had obviously been broken at some point, and a jagged scar next to his ear looked like the result of some violent blunt-force trauma. “I’m guessing you know where that would take place.”

“I do,” Masinga said.

“I need you to show me.”

“That’s back into the middle of this maze,” the third member of the trio said. “You’ll never get past Thero’s men.”

“Maybe I won’t,” Kurt corrected. “But we are going to try. You’re all coming with me.”

“Fine by me,” Devlin said. “I’ve got a bone to pick with one of them.”

“I do also,” Masinga said.

“Just tie me to the machine,” the third man said. “I’ll wait for you to come back.”

Kurt glared at him.

“What’s the difference? Three against thirty or four against thirty? Same odds, really. You don’t need me.”

In a roundabout way, the man was right. Kurt had another idea. “How many other prisoners down here?”

“Sixty or seventy,” Masinga replied.

“And how many of them might like a shot at revenge?”

“At least sixty or seventy,” the South African repeated, smiling.

“That makes the living quarters our first stop.”

Joe and Gregorovich remained in the interrogation room, sweating in what had to be hundred-degree heat. As the perspiration trickled down his face and dripped off his nose, Joe could barely believe the irony. “An hour ago, I thought I’d freeze to death.”

“Now they’re broiling us,” Gregorovich replied.

The small room had begun to feel stifling. Joe figured it was time to take drastic measures. He writhed around until he could rub the side of his wet face against the back of his hand. When the perspiration from his face and hair had coated his hand, he changed positions.

Squeezing his fingers together as tightly as he could, Joe eased his hand into the cuff. He felt like a contortionist, pulling and twisting.

“You’ll never get free like that,” Gregorovich said.

“I have large wrists and average hands,” Joe said. “And these old shackles have a lot of play in them.”

With the sweat acting as a lubricant, Joe finessed his hand deeper into the cuff. Finally, it came free.

Joe smiled victorious. “Blood, sweat, and tears,” he said. “That’s all it takes.”

Gregorovich looked down. “What about your feet? I don’t suppose you have big ankles and narrow toes.”

Joe hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“One step at a time,” he said. “One step at a time.”