We finally come to a stop at a small landing. There’s one door that has a sign that says “Employees Only” on it.
“That should be an unused janitor’s closet,” he says, pointing at the door. “Which means . . .”
He heads to a blank wall and starts pressing on bricks at random, muttering to himself. Finally, one of them pushes in, and a portion of the wall slides away.
He turns to me and grins.
“What’d I say? You’d be surprised what kinds of gonzo shit the government designed in the ’60s and ’70s. It’s like they were taking their cues from James Bond movies.”
The panel closes behind us as we step into what looks like a museum of old train cars—ten or so of them parked side by side in a tight row in front of us.
“What is this place?” I whisper to myself as I look around. There seems to be no other entrance or exit.
“Union Station’s top secret transport hub.” He waves at one of the cameras on the wall and then limps forward. “Good. Looks like they sent back our car. We won’t have to wait for it.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask. Even if he is a major, this seems like it should be far above his pay grade.
“There’s a small team of soldiers stationed out of a secret base here in the city. Our primary concern is the safe evacuation of assets and high-profile targets in the event of an emergency.”
He keys in a code on the side of one of the trains and a door opens. The inside is roughly as big as a single subway car but furnished like a private jet: all plush and leather.
“Incredible,” I murmur as Gamera lands on a bench and takes the form of a snapping turtle.
“You haven’t seen anything. Watch this.”
Briggs walks to the front of the car and flips a series of switches. The train shakes, and suddenly we’re sinking into the cement, until the entire car is several yards below the floor. A set of lights goes on, and I can see a track disappearing into a dark tunnel ahead of us.
“We’ll be there in an hour. Why don’t you get some sleep if you can.”
The train car starts to shoot forward, taking me off balance a little. I catch myself on the side of a seat before sinking into it.
It’s as if just by sitting down, my body gives up, ready to pass out.
While Briggs busies himself at the front of the car, I pull out my satellite phone. Whatever Adam did to it must have worked, because I get a signal.
But Sam doesn’t answer.
Please be safe, wherever you are.
Before I can start worrying or hypothesizing what my son might be doing, a dark, dreamless sleep settles on me, and the rest of the world fades away to nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“MALCOLM!”
I shoot up in my seat as I wake to the sound of my name, gasping back into consciousness.
“Finally,” Briggs says. “I’ve been yelling at you for a full minute. I thought I was going to have to slap you again.”
He’s on the bench across from me, injured leg outstretched. The bandage is starting to ooze blood around the edges. My eyes scan the train car until I find Gamera, still in turtle form, snoring on the floor by my feet.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Almost to the bunker. I figured you’d want a few minutes to wake up.”
I nod, rubbing my eyes. They sting, and I realize I’m probably on the way to being dehydrated if I’m not already. I look at my phone. Still nothing. I’ve slept less than an hour.
“We’re still underground?”
“This whole system is underground,” Briggs says. “It’s a secret, remember?”
“Fascinating,” I say, still trying to wrap my head around things. Since being freed from the Mogs, waking up has been a process of slowly remembering where I am and what I’m doing—especially if I find myself in a strange place. “I have so many questions I don’t know where to begin.”
“You’ve got questions?” He points to Gamera. “That’s a shape-shifting alien pet. This is the craziest shit I’ve ever seen. Well . . . maybe it would have been a week ago. Before everything else.”
Gamera stares at his finger curiously.
“Looks like he’s hungry,” Briggs says.
“He won’t bite,” I say. “At least, I don’t think he will. His name’s Gamera. That was my idea. He . . . always seemed fond of my son.”
Briggs mutters something I can’t make out.
“When we get to wherever we’re going, I’d appreciate you not mentioning him to the others. It’s not that I don’t trust whoever’s there . . . it’s just that I’m afraid—”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re right to be cautious. Everyone’s on edge. We’re all still trying to figure out who’s in bed with the Mogadorians and who’s not. It’s a select group being collected at the bunker, though. Still . . . I mean, aliens are real, so I don’t know what to expect anymore.”
I have to focus. Names float through my mind—the men and women we know of who are MogPro agents.