Clyde was more sure-footed. He’d practiced this maneuver with his new trainer many times, starting with a nearly horizontal ladder that Avi had gradually made steeper. Now, as Clyde made his way down, I stayed right below him, guiding his feet, ready to catch him if he slipped.
The ladder ended in a cramped space. A man-height tunnel led off to the left and the right, in opposite directions. Clyde jumped from the final rung, and I clipped on his lead, then gave him another hit on Hiram’s tie.
In the dark, guided only by scent, Clyde turned into the western tunnel, heading away from the cement factory. I marked our path with more Silly String and followed.
The tunnel was an engineering marvel. Maybe it had begun as nothing more than a narrow passage carved out by Ennis Parker or another man in the search for gold. But at some point someone, presumably Roman, had improved upon it.
The tunnel was four feet wide, more than five feet high, and buttressed every ten feet by wooden support beams. The path was flat and well groomed. Lanterns hung at regular intervals, although none were lit. Despite the dark, Clyde walked fast, with confidence. The only sounds were his breathing and mine. And a faint, faraway whisper—the distant murmur of water.
My goggles picked out walls that shone with damp. Patches of moisture gleamed on the floor.
Three minutes deeper into the tunnel, Clyde stopped, his ears up, his posture rigid. Then he lay down. Behind him, I froze, my breath trapped as my heart tried to rise into my throat.
Only three things would make Clyde alert in this manner: contraband, trespassers, and explosives. Since we were alone in the tunnel and we weren’t searching a train for contraband, that left only one option.
A bomb.
I took an involuntary step backward as my mind ran down a list in a flash, like a flame licking along a fuse. Pipe bombs, suitcase bombs, barrel bombs, land mines. Bouncing bombs, pressure-cooker bombs, IEDs. All the different explosives that had torn humans apart since the invention of gunpowder.
A gibbering part of my brain begged me to turn and run. Away from bombs and water-weakened tunnels and a psychopathic killer. To get myself and my partner out of there and back up to solid ground and the sweet, life-giving rush of fresh air.
Behind me, the Six stirred, a rustling felt rather than heard. Here to witness my end.
Then a voice in my ear. The Sir.
Steady, he said. We’re still good.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to study the tunnel, looking for signs of explosives. Ten feet along, on the right-hand side of the path, a small heap of dirt and rock disrupted the otherwise clean space. The debris looked innocent—a normal by-product of clearing and maintaining the tunnel.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry and my heart felt like it was trying to flee without me.
But I’d expected this. More than expected it. I’d known Roman would protect his tunnels in the same way he’d guarded the kiln. And since bomb makers tend to specialize, I’d also known he’d probably use the same kind of detonator. I pulled the can of Silly String from my pocket and sprayed a long stream into the seemingly empty space ahead of us.
In Iraq, soldiers had come to rely on this child’s toy as an effective way to find a bomb’s trip wire. As it fell to the ground, the sticky material would cling to the wire and show its location. A perfect reveal without being heavy enough to trigger the bomb.
But now, the plastic strands fell uselessly to the ground. I inched forward and sprayed again. This time the ten-foot-long strands caught on an invisible wire a foot above the ground. The threads hung like Christmas tree tinsel, swaying gently in a faint draft.
I heard a moan, realized it was mine.
Beside me in the tunnel the Sir said, You’re scared. That’s okay. Keeps you sharp.
I stared at the trip wire then set my jaw and drew back my shoulders. In Iraq, I’d handled dead bodies until my fingers stopped working and my legs gave way and the stench of the dead stayed with me like my own skin. I’d been spit on, shot at, blown up. I’d brought the dead back with me from Iraq and added a few more. I’d done so because I’d sworn to protect my country.
And so what? Marines were tough. First in, last out. America’s conscience and its might.
“What do you say, partner?” I whispered.
Clyde lay still, waiting for a signal from me that he could rise. Waiting for me to get my act together.
His tail thumped. “Game on,” he was saying.
I signaled him to stand, then I squatted next to him, slid my hands under his belly like a forklift, and hugged him tight. Clyde stayed quiet. I lifted my right foot high over the trip wire, brought it down on the other side, followed through with my left.
Nothing went boom. The world stayed in place. The Silly String still swayed softly, a warning for anyone who followed.
I set Clyde back on the ground and released my breath.
“Seek,” I said softly, and off he went.
At some point, the tunnel narrowed and the ceiling lowered, reducing me to a hunched walk. The patches of moisture on the ground turned into puddles; my boots became tacky with wet clay, and Clyde’s paws built up a scrim of mud. Whenever we passed other tunnels that yawned into the dark, I marked our route. As we went along, the trail we followed began to glow in my mind—I recalled one of the maps Roman had pinned in his room and recognized the route. The turns were leading us toward the river.
By now, up above, Cohen and other police would have arrived. They would have found my truck and the Mercedes, and were probably making their way into the building.
But down in this tomb, I could hear nothing except my own breath and Clyde’s, and the persistent murmur of water.
The tunnel made an almost-ninety-degree turn to the right. I halted Clyde, cleared the corner, then motioned him forward. As soon as we rounded the corner, the sound of voices drifted toward us from the tunnel ahead.
I halted Clyde again and lowered my goggles. Up ahead, a light shone. The tunnel widened before it made another ninety-degree turn, this one thirty feet ahead and to the left. Clyde and I were in a blind pocket between the two ninety-degree turns. I looked around for a camera or motion detector, but the passageway lay empty. The double-blind was a dubious defense strategy on Roman’s part. There was no way for us to see him—but also no way for him to see us. I signaled Clyde to sit, then hunkered down beside him, weapon drawn, working to sort out the voices.
Water pooled around our feet.
“I set up a trust for your expenses,” said a man. “And every month I sent enough money to your grandmother to take care of you. To pay for your college, to buy you whatever you needed.”
Hiram. His voice was steady—neither defeated nor defiant. The voice of a man negotiating a deal in the boardroom. “You had everything that you could—”
“Blood money!” The second voice came harsh. “She’s an addict. A junkie. We barely had enough to live on. It was like a fucking prison being out there with her. She snorted your blood money. Injected it. Swallowed it.”
Jack Hurley, aka Roman Quinn.