“You’re sure this is the way?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure.”
“It should be a building with a green door. I’m not certain if it’ll be labeled or not.”
“A green door? That’s all you have?”
“Green Door Tour. It goes back to Vietnam. They would mark the color of the door by the level of security clearance.”
“And a green door was a high one?”
“The highest one.”
We make two more turns and then come to a building with a Cammo dude truck parked out front.
A simple sign by the side of the structure reads: A-13.
As we pull up beside the other truck, I get a good look at the front of the building.
It has a green door.
Building A-13
Fred exits the other truck and hurries toward us. “You two are late.”
“That last security checkpoint slowed us down,” I explain.
“Well, this is as far as I go. We aren’t allowed in any of the actual research buildings.”
“But do you know what goes on in there?”
He’s slow to answer. “I did some asking around. See that hangar over there?”
It was attached to the far end of the building. There was no way to miss it. “Yes.”
“They’re doing work on drones. That’s all I know. Something with autonomously flown drones. Only a skeleton crew of people assigned to the project.”
He scans the area. “I don’t see any other vehicles around, so that’s a good sign, but it’s possible there are still some people inside. Personnel get dropped off, picked up around here all the time. From what I hear there’s a test scheduled for later tonight. I’m not sure when people will start to arrive.”
“Okay,” Xavier tells him. “Thanks for your help. We’ll be careful.”
“I really don’t think you should go in there.” There’s more than a little uneasiness in Fred’s voice. “It’s a miracle you’ve made it this far. I think you oughtta get out of here, go back home.”
“We’re here to see what all this has to do with the murder of our friend,” I remind him. “And we’re not turning around until we have some answers.”
He bites his lip, looks around nervously, then leads us to the building and pulls out a security-coded swipe card.
“I managed to get this, but I need it back in thirty minutes. Got it? If I don’t return it, we’re all going down.”
“That doesn’t give us a lot of time,” Xavier says. “Are you sure you can’t—”
“Positive. Get in there, get what you need, and get out. But before you do anything, you need to move your truck.” He points to a nearby maintenance building. “Park it behind there.”
We hide the pickup, and when we return, he swipes the security card and points to the keypad. “Type in the code Fionna pulled up. That should get you in. From there, you’re on your own.”
I check the papers she gave us, punch in the number, the light beside the keypad turns green, and there’s a click as the front door unlocks.
Fred hands me the card. “Thirty minutes.”
“6:45. Gotcha.”
“I’ll meet you behind the maintenance building where you parked your truck. Don’t be late.”
Xavier thanks him one more time. We tell him goodbye, he leaves, and Xavier and I step inside Building A-13.
I close the door behind us.
A lobby. Beige. Spartan furniture. Lit by stark fluorescents overhead. Concrete block walls. The air in the building smells stale and musty. The AC is blasting through a vent right above our heads.
No one is here.
“What if we do meet someone?” Xavier asks me quietly. “How are we gonna explain what we’re doing in here?”
That sign on the edge of the property warning about the use of deadly force pops to mind.
“I’m working on that.” I pull out my phone.
“We checked on that earlier,” Xav reminds me. “Remember? Only a couple bars.”
“They have to communicate with each other somehow. And there were no landlines leading to this building.”
“How do you know?”
“I was looking for them.”
“Buried wires?”
I show him my phone. “Maybe. But I’ve got good reception here. It looks like they must have a cell tower here on this side of the base.”
“That’ll be good if we need to call for help.” Then he adds reflectively, “Except most everyone around here would rather shoot us or arrest us.”
“Thanks for that reminder there.”
“No problem.”
Hallways branch off from both sides. “So, split up or stick together?” I ask.
“Splitting up might save us time, but I vote we stick together.”
“I’m good with that.” I gesture toward the hallway on the right. “Let’s start over here.”
“And what exactly are we looking for again?”
“We need to find out what the research that’s going on in this building has to do with Emilio’s death.”
Calista stood in the honeymoon suite staring at Jeremy Turnisen. Unconscious, gagged, legs still bound to the chair, hands drooped limply on his lap.
He was breathing weakly.
Derek had sewed the man’s wrists together, piercing all the way through them with the needle and heavy suture thread before tugging it tight and wrapping it around several times, then tying it off.
Jeremy was missing three fingers, all severed cleanly from his left hand by one of the knives on the desk. The gruesome sewed-up incisions on his stomach and face defied description.
He was helpless. Vulnerable.
Just like Thad after they paralyzed him.
Just like you in the mornings when Derek has his way with you.
He betrayed you.
Drugged you.
Took advantage of you.
Derek wanted information from this man, but he hadn’t been able to get it, even after spending the majority of the day interrogating him.
If that’s what you want to call it.
Calista had no idea how long she might have before Derek decided to return to the room. Maybe he would finish eating, maybe he was already on his way up.
Through the open bathroom door she saw the drugs he’d used on Jeremy last night lying on the counter. They’re probably the same ones he uses on you.
Anger sliced through her. What had he said earlier? That they usually put someone out for at least six or seven hours?
How much time did he spend with you in the mornings after he drugged you?
Despite herself she felt a chill.
She picked up one of the knives and approached the man in front of her.
There was a ton of blood on the plastic sheet, so she kicked off her shoes before stepping onto it.
The knife was brutally sharp. She already knew that from watching Derek work.
Derek.
The man who drugged her.
Just like he drugged this guy.
A squirm of disgust ran through her.
She remembered that first time she killed someone, the time when it was a mistake, when her friend was coming at her and she swiped that blade toward her stomach and it ended up cutting her open. It was disgusting. Disturbing. Messy.
No plastic sheet that time.
She watched Jeremy breathe, the gentle, somewhat uneven, rise and fall of his chest.
How much pain would he be in if he were awake?
Calista leaned forward.
If she did this, things would never be the same between her and Derek again.
They’re already different.
Yes, yes they were.
And it was his fault, not hers.