“He’s really close,” Millar said frantically.
Turner quickly ripped the cover off the wall and slid inside the dark tunnel. The aluminum popped and twisted as he snaked his way through the confined space and around a corner. It wasn’t long before he recognized the same sound off in the distance. He knew someone else had made their way into the metal maze. He didn’t have his light on, so when he bumped his head into what seemed to be the end of the ventilation system he was surprised.
“Etzy, it looks like I’ve reached a dead end. Can you confirm?”
“It shouldn’t be,” Millar said. Panic had crept into his voice. “The blueprints say it goes out to the third floor…a big common area.”
The sound was getting closer. Turner didn’t want a confrontation with an FBI agent, so he needed to get creative.
“What’s below me?” he asked.
“Nothing that I can see. You’re pretty much next to the stairwell.”
The sound from his pursuer had stopped. Turner braced his hands on the sides of the metal ventilation shaft and began to rock it violently from side to side. At first there wasn’t much noise or movement, but after a couple of hard shoves the sound increased until there was a massive thud.
Trent Turner shook his head and tried to get his bearings. It was still pitch black, and it felt like he had fallen quite a long way. He pulled out his XHD3 and shined its small LED light toward the immediate threat from above. He saw that he had snapped the vent shaft supports for the section he was in. He had fallen around fifteen feet, but his descent had been slowed initially when the metal had bent down toward the ground. The shaft had folded onto itself and now managed to obscure the view into the unclaimed space he currently occupied.
There were no doors leading out of the small room. It appeared to have been closed in for decades. He could see by the angle of the ceiling that one side faced the stairwell and the other the theater. Most of the wall was plastered, but he saw one section that had been repaired with drywall.
He knocked on the wall a couple of times to confirm and asked, “Etzy, what’s in front of me?”
“It looks like the stairwell, but I’m not sure I trust these blueprints.”
He laughed to himself. “I hear you.”
The aluminum above him started to flex and rumble. It sounded like the man was testing the supports. Turner couldn’t help but smile when he considered the advantage of being chased. You didn’t have time to think about shit like that.
“Okay, I’ve got an update,” Millar said. “There’s one guy practically on top of you, one right next to you, one standing at the top of the stairs on the third floor, and I’ve picked up the other guy. He’s down in the lobby, waiting.”
Turner pulled a tool out of his pocket and used a knife-edge to slice into the drywall lengthwise along the vertical two-by-fours that held it in place. He then punched a small hole into the drywall at eye level with a stabbing motion. He cleared away the debris with the tool and peeked through. It took him a second to realize he was staring at an eyeball on the other side of the hole. He heard pounding above as Millar chimed in once again.
“Man, you are standing right next to the guy in the stairwell,” he said.
Turner was out of time. He brought his elbow back and delivered a devastating blow to the bridge of the man’s nose through the drywall. The operative quickly kicked the rest of his way through producing a haze of white dust. He barely registered the people screaming as his now ghostly form popped through the wall. The FBI agent’s face was bloody, and he had balled himself up on the floor as he groaned in pain.
“I need a little help,” Turner said.
He knew Millar had been desperately searching for a way out.
“It’s hard to see if the south side is clear,” the hacker said, “and the PMD can’t get a view into the covered alley between the theater’s bathrooms and the school. The other options don’t look good, if that’s any help.”
Turner heard a loud thump through the hole he had just emerged from, signaling the man had made it through. He quickly bolted down the stairs, and when he reached the bottom he could see the fourth agent charging toward him from across the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden movement as he bolted to the bathroom. He hoped the window would be more cooperative this time around.
The operative shoved the bathroom door open and went straight to the window above the heat register. He had tried to pry it open in the morning when he had scoped the place out, but could only manage to crack it open part of the way. This time around he wasn’t concerned about doing any damage. He needed to get outside — and fast.
Chapter 109
The Russians had been waiting out back and were growing impatient. The FBI agents should have burst through the back door minutes ago, but they had yet to make their way outside. The three men had The American in their sights but had been caught off guard when he charged at them with the Feds they had recognized in tow. The leader of the Bratva soldiers lit his unfiltered cigarette in disgust, his other hand perched on his weapon of choice.
The directive from Pavel Kozlov had been no bloodshed inside the theater. He had been adamant about it. Their attempt to lure the agents out the back door and out of the public’s view had failed. There were no more doubts; their plan didn’t work. They had been eyeing the man in the car twenty meters away and had grown wary of his presence. They planned to pay him a visit after they finished with the FBI to make sure there were no witnesses.
“We need to check inside,” the leader said to his squat comrade with the pockmarked face.
“Da. Let’s make it quick in case they’ve called for more men.”
The Russian followed his direction and tried to turn the knob on the door, but it was locked. He grabbed hold the doorknob again, this time with both hands, but it still wouldn’t turn.
The leader took another drag off his smoke, and looked toward the car. His face wore a scowl. “Help me,” he told the others.
The three men gathered around the door. The largest of the three grabbed a long piece of steel that was leaning against the wall and tried to pry the door open, while the other two men pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.
“It’s no use. Let’s go around to the front,” the Russian with the steel bar said.
The others nodded in agreement.
The Russian in charge flashed another look at the car and exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose before leading the men south to circle around the building. Chicago’s Fine Arts Building was connected to Roosevelt University, so when they rounded the corner to head east toward Michigan Avenue, they faced a tunnel that ran beneath the second floor of the adjoining buildings.
“Pavel will be pissed if The American gets away again,” he said before taking another pull on his cigarette.
“Da, da. we will be flipping hamburgers if he doesn’t shoot us first,” the pockmarked Russian agreed.
The leader shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking when he asked us to take care of a man such as him with conditions.”
“What do you think we should do about it?” the squat Russian asked.
“Fuck the conditions,” he said in a dark tone. “If you see him, kill him. He should already be dead. It will be in our best interest to beg for forgiveness rather than to ask for permission.”
The men nodded in agreement and increased their pace. They had made it halfway through the tunnel when a loud creaking sound caused them to freeze and take stock.
“What the hell is that?” the Russian said, flicking his cigarette to the ground.