A long scratch mark ran down the entire length of pipe. It had been ground right into the red paint and gave off a silver gleam from the metal below.
‘Check it out. Looks fresh. Rothschild’s police knife maybe.’
Felicia noticed the scratch. ‘Or Oliver leading the way. Believe me, he knows we’re coming, Jacob.’
‘I know that. But what choice do we have?’
Striker began following the scratch down the eastern tunnel. Within thirty feet, the passage angled left, then after another ten feet, left again. Before Striker knew it, he had no idea which way they were heading. The place was a giant underground labyrinth, and it was getting progressively hotter with every step. When they turned another corner, Striker lost his balance and put out his hand. It touched the red pipe next to them, and he pulled it away fast.
‘Fucking hot,’ he said.
Felicia said nothing; she just listened. There was a rushing sound in the tunnel. A soft but constant rumble.
‘That’s the steam in the pipes,’ she said. ‘You can imagine the pressure.’
Striker looked at the pipes for a long moment. ‘If Oliver sets off a bomb down here, we’re gonna be like lobsters in a pot.’ He took out his cell phone and tried to get a signal. When it failed, he cursed. ‘I thought he had relays down here?’
Felicia just shrugged like she had no idea.
Striker turned to face her. ‘You have to go back.’
‘What?’ She gave him a stunned look. ‘Without you? No way.’
‘There’s no choice. If Oliver blows us up down here, we’ll cook to death, Feleesh. You, me, Rothschild – the kids. You got to get that steam turned off, and as fast as you can.’
‘But—’
‘There’s no choice. We’re out of time.’
Felicia said nothing for a moment. She swore, then gave him a quick hug and a kiss.
‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’
Then she turned and hurried back down the tunnel.
Striker watched her turn the bend and disappear from sight. Alone and sweating from the growing heat, he tightened his grip on the SIG and headed deeper into the crimson darkness of the tunnel.
One Hundred and Forty-Six
Five minutes later, Striker hiked down a long sloping corridor. As he went, he passed by a couple of iron-barred gates that owned locks so old they appeared rusted. The heat and humidity grew, and so did the darkness. When he turned the bend, there were no more red lights overhead.
Everything was pitch-black.
He stopped. Took one cautious step forward. And suddenly a series of red lasers shot all over the tunnel – red crimson beams slicing through the blackness. Striker’s first thought was of the laser tripwires he’d triggered in the sewer systems behind the A&W parking lot.
They’re just laser trips, he recalled the bomb expert saying.
But were they now? And were they designed to stop someone from entering the room – or to prevent them from leaving? At the very least they would slow down someone’s escape.
He aimed his flashlight down the pathway, scanning the floor for tripwires or pressure pads. When he saw none, he slowly, cautiously, made his way down the corridor, stepping over and ducking under each crimson beam in his path.
Beside him, the sound of the steam-pressurized pipes grew louder, moaning like a trapped beast desperate to break free. The heat coming off them was immense.
Thoughts of Oliver setting off a bomb in the tunnels brought a sick feeling to Striker’s stomach. With the combination of darkness, locked doors, laser tripwires, and the never-ending maze, escape from the steam tunnels would be impossible.
Striker cut a final corner and found himself facing a steel door. There, he paused, unsure of what to do. Opening it could not only warn Oliver that he was coming, but trigger a detonation.
Yet what choice did he have?
He reached out and placed his flashlight hand against the steel. Then he readied his pistol and gently pushed open the door. What he saw caused his heart to constrict.
He was standing at the entrance to a control room. Everything was tinted dark red from the overhead lights, and the air was so hot it was suffocating. To his far left, slumped with his back to the concrete wall, was Mike Rothschild. His hands were cuffed to a large steel pipe and blood trickled down the left side of his skull.
His head hung low, his eyes were dazed.
To Striker’s far right was another closed door. Steel, with a deadbolt across the facing. It looked heavy. Across the front was one word:
Maintenance.
‘Welcome to the command room,’ a weary voice said.
Striker turned and looked directly across the room. There, half in the shadows, was Oliver Howell. The man sat on a long steel table, next to a static-filled television monitor and what looked like a green-lighted router. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, complete with a radio, gun and flashlight – but where his bulletproof vest should have been, Oliver had made some modifications. Strapped across his chest were not Kevlar and trauma plates, but long cylindrical columns.
Explosives.
Striker counted six on the front alone.
‘Oliver—’ Striker started.
‘Finally, we’re all here.’ Oliver spoke the words softly, weakly. He looked over at Rothschild. ‘The man who murdered my father’ – he looked back at Striker – ’and the man who murdered my sister.’
‘I murdered no one.’
Oliver made no reply. He just sat there, the slick flesh of his face looking like broken-in red leather in the strange tint of the safety lights. Striker deftly scanned the man up and down. Oliver’s right fist was closed tight. In it was a small rectangular clip of some kind.
A detonator.
Oliver caught his stare.
‘It’s a pressure release,’ he explained. ‘Just like the ones I used to disarm in the Green Zone . . . though I gave this one a ten-second delay.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Just enough time to let you think about what you did before it goes off and we’re all bathed in blistering hot steam.’
‘Where are the children?’ Striker asked.
But Oliver only smiled. He opened his arms wide, and the exertion made his arms and shoulders tremble. ‘Go ahead, Detective. Take your shot. All it takes is one single trigger pull – and then we can end this. Redemption for all.’
One Hundred and Forty-Seven
Striker did not react.
Time . . .
He needed to give Felicia time . . .
He stood there in the entrance to the control room and took in all of his surroundings. In the far corner of the room sat an opened crate. Inside it were supplies, most of which appeared to be technological gear and ammunitions. Next to it sat a small red cooler that had a medical emblem on the front. At the right end of the room was the closed steel door:
Maintenance.
Striker studied it and thought of Cody and Shana.
He turned back to Howell and met the man’s stare. ‘Are the children in there?’ When the bomber said nothing, Striker added, ‘They’re not a part of this, they’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Nothing wrong?’ Oliver laughed oddly. ‘What wrong did my father do?’
Striker looked back at the man. ‘Your father did nothing wrong. We both know that. You, on the other hand, have committed murder.’
‘Retribution—’
‘Murder, Oliver. Because what you think happened is all wrong.’ Striker took a small slow step into the room, and Oliver’s fingers tightened on the release pad. ‘I know it all,’ Striker continued. ‘You think the Emergency Response Team betrayed your father. That Koda was the lead, and Rothschild was the shooter. You think Archer was shot in the back and blown up in the process, and you also think that Osaka covered up the shooting.’