When he’d moved enough dirt to allow the rebar to be wiggled, he planted his feet, grabbed the rebar with both hands, and pulled. His aching body sent waves of pain through him. He rhythmically pushed out and returned, hoping the change in pressure would crack the weld.
Ten minutes later, his head was drenched in sweat, his body spent, and the weld was just as solid as it had been when he’d started.
He sat down against the wall, panting. He picked up the rock and turned it in his fingers. Without thinking, he turned to the dark wood and scratched the words: Desmond Hughes was here. He sat back on the dirt floor, studying his own name carved in jagged white letters on the wall. He leaned forward and added a second line: I’m innocent.
He had written the line without even really considering it. He wondered if it was true. In his memories, he had seen himself in a warehouse where people were being treated in makeshift hospital cells. But treated for what? He knew there was an outbreak in Africa—possibly of Ebola—and that Peyton Shaw was there. Peyton, the woman he, or someone else, had instructed him to warn.
Had he known this outbreak was coming?
Someone did. In another memory, he had seen a man with a badly scarred face, standing before a group, telling them the world would soon change.
Desmond lay on his back in the cell, his mind wandering. Wherever he was, it was hot and arid, easily seventy-five degrees in the dead of night. He was in the tropics, in a very dry region: Africa, or maybe an island in the Caribbean. No, an island was unlikely—he didn’t smell the salt of the sea. In fact, there was no breeze at all blowing through the open central lane of the barn.
He began assembling an escape plan. He knew his adversaries were pros. They had taken him alive for a reason. That meant they wanted to keep him alive.
The sweat covering his face might work in his favor. He spat on the jagged rock and wiped it on his pants, attempting to clean it. Then he lifted his shirt and scratched the rock against his side, just enough to break the skin and bring blood to the surface. He spread the blood around, then held his shirt to the wound, letting the dark red soak through.
The sound of boots marching down the corridor focused him. He lay on his bad side and slowed his breathing, trying to look more vulnerable. His best chance was to lure the visitor into his cell. If he couldn’t do that, he’d have to attack the man through the bars and hope he could reach for the key. Perhaps he could throw the rock. With his hands bound together, it would be difficult to throw very hard, but if he could make the man stumble closer to the bars, Desmond might be able to reach through and get his hands on him.
The soldier stopped square in front of his stall. He wore full body armor, including a black helmet with a visor.
“I need a doctor,” Desmond said, his voice weak. “Somebody ripped my side open dragging me in here.”
The sweat on his face supported the lie, but the soldier made no movement or response.
“You hear me? I need a doctor.”
The man’s voice was gruff, hard. “This look like a hospital to you?”
“No. Apparently it’s a home for idiot mercenaries. Incidentally, what do you think your employer will do to you when I die of sepsis shortly after delivery?” Desmond paused. “Gotta think your life expectancy plummets.”
“Show me.” Some of the bravado was gone from the man’s voice.
“Doctor.”
“You’re lying.”
Desmond turned and moved his right arm slightly, revealing part of his blood-soaked side. He made his words come out even more labored. “I figure they’ll kill me anyway. Least I’ll take you with me.”
“Walk to me.”
“Screw you,” Desmond spat.
For a moment he thought the man was going to open the cell. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out.
He returned ten minutes later, carrying a tray full of food and a small case. Hope filled Desmond until the man slid the tray through the bars. It was flimsy, Styrofoam—useless.
“Eat,” the suited man said.
“Not hungry. Too busy dying.” Desmond was incredibly hungry, but he knew what was in the food; he’d be unconscious shortly after his first bite. Then they would inspect his wound, discover his deception, and regard everything he said afterward with complete disbelief, ruining his chances of escape.
“You really want to do this the hard way?”
“I thought we already were.”
The soldier set the case on the ground, opened it, and prepped something. Desmond rose, ready to throw the rock and charge the iron bars, but the soldier was quick: he drew a pistol from the case and fired once, striking Desmond in the chest.
Chapter 35
Millen came to with a start. His torso ached, but it was a sensation at his leg that caught his attention: something slithering around his left calf. He lay still, waiting to see if whatever it was would move on. Instead, it closed tightly, squeezing like a vise. He thought it was no larger than an inch around, but it was strong, and with each passing second, it cut off more of his circulation.
He had fallen down a vertical shaft; he wasn’t sure how far. He was surrounded by absolute darkness, except for a single point of light in the distance, like a penlight in a train tunnel.
The thing closed more tightly around his leg. To Millen’s surprise, it pulled with incredible force, dragging him across the rock, into the wall.
The light shone brighter, raked across his body. He saw what had ensnared him: a rope, tied in a loop, lassoed around his leg.
“Stop!” he yelled.
The rope continued pulling at him, lifting him into the air. The pressure on his left ankle, where the rope had settled, was excruciating. His shoulders were still on the ground, but with each passing second, he rose.
They couldn’t hear him. He still had his suit on, and it was muffling his voice.