Ahead of them, Franco continued to use the men to check each side door, every shadow. They found a military boot, lots of papers, pens, clipboards, and several toppled computer terminals. Exactly the type of leftovers one would expect in an evacuated laboratory.
No signs of any threats, but nonetheless Gant let Franco and his team work several paces ahead, knowing that he needed to keep Twiste and the gear he and Campion carried well out of harm's way. If something leapt from a shadow, Franco's group would be on their own.
They are expendable.
After two more minutes of moving forward, the scout team stopped again and Franco signaled for consultation.
Pearson and Campion remained with Twiste a ways behind the vanguard while Gant moved forward to survey the situation. He found Moss and Wells standing to either side of the hall with their weapons trained ahead where a solitary emergency light cast a glow over stacks of desks, chairs, and file cabinets thrown into a messy pile.
Gant squinted and realized this was not a mess but, rather, a hastily constructed barricade. Someone had taken refuge behind that spot and—
The floor, ahead of them and around them, was stained crimson. Old and faded, covered in dust, dried and decaying — but recognizable nonetheless. He moved his flashlight into the shadows unreached by the small spotlight and saw more gore, including an ancient patch splattered among the pipes and wires running along the ceiling.
Meanwhile, Franco and Galati eyed an open stairwell that led in the only direction the designers of Red Rock had allowed: down, one floor at a time.
Gant turned around and glanced back in the direction they had come, seeing a long corridor of light and dark. Particles of dust kicked up by the newcomers' boots floated in the air. He knew the duplicate vault room and vestibule were not too far back there, yet it felt as if they had marched a mile.
He turned back around, sighed, and looked to the stairs. It seemed darker down there, but somehow he knew they would find enough working lights to find their way, although he did not take comfort in that fact.
"Sir?" Franco waited for orders.
"No reason to wait, Sergeant, move us down."
16
Liz stood on the wrong side of her desk, having ceded the position of authority to General Borman, who was making it quite clear that her appointment as facility commander at Red Rock meant very little anymore, if it ever had at all. Nonetheless, she refused to back down.
"How are you even going to know if they’re successful?"
"Not your problem, Colonel. You have one job—"
"Yes, yes," she said, waving her hand and dismissing his words. "To keep that door closed. Well, you opened it, General. Maybe I should have stopped you."
"Stopped me? I own this place and I own you!"
"Do you own the mess that happened down there, too? Is that what this is all about? This is all about cleaning up a mess you made, isn’t it? All about covering your ass!"
Borman stepped around the desk and at her so fast that she instinctively retreated a step. Before she knew what was happening, his sidearm was aimed at her forehead.
Liz stood perfectly still. Time slowed and she became incredibly aware of her surroundings, as if her senses had quadrupled in acuity. She heard the tick of the wall clock, the flow of air through the ventilation ducts, the beating of her heart.
General Borman pulled the slide on his semi-automatic pistol. A bullet chambered with what was, in reality, a short and sharp click, but to her ears it sounded like a boom of thunder.
She noticed a soft gleam on his skin and realized he perspired; a sheath of moisture covered his cheeks and gave his skin a plastic-like appearance, as if Harold Borman were more mannequin than man. Except for the eyes, of course. His eyes were wide and white and full of something that was most likely fury but might also pass for desperation.
He spoke through clenched teeth, and as he did, Liz Thunder realized that at that very moment he would not hesitate to murder her. General Borman might very well pull that trigger, because he so clearly believed that — yes — he owned Red Rock and everything within.
Or does Red Rock own him?
"Listen … very … carefully. When I’m here, I rule. I am the undisputed dictator of this world. I decide who lives and who dies and no one—no one—ever asks me why or how. I put you in this office to babysit. Nothing else. Stay out of my business or I will bury you."
He pushed the automatic into her forehead, leaving a mark on her skin. She closed her eyes to retain at least some outward image of calm, but everything inside went haywire. Confusion. Fear. Anger.
Over the years she had faced a fair number of loaded firearms, from patrolling sentries offering challenge to unbalanced patients desperate for a way out — escape — from nightmares of her conjuring.
This felt different. She could not talk him down, she could not reason with him. Her survival depended on his insanity blowing over, if that was even possible. So Liz Thunder stayed quiet and as motionless as her shivering body allowed.
His breath huffed out in adrenaline-filled snorts, like a bull facing a torero.
Then the pressure was gone. She heard his gun return to its holster and then the click of his shoes. When she finally opened her eyes, General Borman had disappeared.
Still, she remained frozen in place for four … five … ten seconds until the wretch in her gut forced her to seek the wastebasket.
As she struggled to keep the contents of her stomach down, she also struggled with the idea of walking right off base and getting as far away from the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility as possible.
She had already felt that her life was in danger from whatever lurked in the sublevels below, and now she knew that General Borman could put a bullet in her head as easily as ordering lunch from the canteen. When faced with bodily threats, retreat — running — made perfect sense. In this case, she might be able to find someone at the Pentagon willing to listen. They might even send an investigator … who would get here in two to three weeks and who would need to cut through General Borman's long and illustrious history dealing with threats most of the military brass simply did not understand.
Sure, that will work.
Or she could do exactly what she had done last time: just do her job as defined by her superiors and let others worry about the fallout.
Who are you kidding, Liz? That was as much an act of abandonment as walking away.
She pulled herself together and leaned against the desk. Both choices — staying and following orders to the letter or running off for help — meant leaving Thom to his fate.
That gave her pause, and she wondered what secrets they might already have discovered deep below her feet beyond the steel-reinforced concrete, the EMP shielding, the sealed vents, and the welded door. She wondered if they were still alive.
Liz sensed a hint of weight in her pocket; the weight of a cigarette pack. How nice it would be to sit here and enjoy a smoke. Yes, that might just put her mind at ease.
Her fingers slipped into her pocket, touched the half-pack of Virginia Slims … and stopped.
No.
Liz's eyes darted around the office to find something to focus on other than a craving from the past. She saw a pile of file folders on a side table; personnel folders, one for each of the soldiers she had come here to confuse and stump to see if they were focused enough to handle the pressure. She wondered how well she would do in such a test.
One file sat by itself to the side of the rest. She vaguely remembered Sanchez leaving it for her last night, but she had not given it much thought. It was not, after all, like all the rest. Instead of boiling the personality of a man into numbers and words, this folder contained information regarding the Archangel mission into the quarantine zone. Nothing of real interest, just the type of paperwork required of the bureaucracy to ensure the proper documentation of all actions inside Red Rock.