“Do it or I shoot.”
What kind of death do I prefer? One is more immediate so I shuffle forward without lifting a foot. When I see a set of metal handles, I release my breath and sweat rolls down my sides.
Mr. Sneer will make a mistake and when he does, I’m going shoot him. Then, I’ll do my happy dance on his dead body.
He unlocks a padlock holding a chain wrapping around the door’s handles.
I thought I’d be happy to be off the ledge but now I’m not so sure. Cool, musty air hits my face as we descend a steep set of stairs lit only by a string of dim bulbs. At the bottom, we traverse an open space filled with piles of lumber and tons of cement bags.
I shiver as he pushes me toward more steps and we go lower still. By my calculations, we must be at least two stories underneath the subway.
I say a little prayer for my mom. She’ll be devastated when she finds out I’m missing, even more so when they find me dead. She was looking forward to being a grandmother. And Jack? He’ll be a mess. I see him in front of my casket, face devoid of any emotion. He’ll just shut down and probably never recover.
I can’t let that happen.
Finally, we stop our descent and Sneer reaches into his pocket. This time, he pulls out an LED flashlight and a tiny circle of light shines forward, showing tons of rock overhead. With each step I take the walls get closer. Then, the ceiling and floor squeeze tight as well. Struggling for air, I gasp, and drop to my knees.
“What’s wrong with you? Get up. Move.” He bends over to pull me up by my underarms but I wriggle forward, just beyond his grasp.
Holy fuck.That was close. If he’d lifted me, he surely would’ve found my gun. My wheezing steadies, I get to my knees, and the illusion is gone. The tunnel is back to normal.
“Sorry, claustrophobic.” I force an apologetic look on my face which he seems to accept with a grunt.
After we walk for what must be miles, we stop at an eight-foot, gray metal door. When it opens, I’m blinded by excruciatingly bright lights. When my eyes adjust, a vast expanse of gleaming steel lights up like Giant’s stadium.
I remember reading something in The Sunday Times about the construction of a new tunnel. These giant tubes must be tied to the water system but it’s weird. In a far-off corner, I count two golf-carts, a twelve-foot motor, and other machines in various states of disassembly.
I’m so tired my feet feel like lead and when he pushes me into a small office, I’m thrilled to sit on the cold floor, that is, until I see the bloodied man lying on his back near me. His leg’s in a splint made with two-by-fours and electrical tape. Eyes, lips, and nose are so bruised, not even his mother would recognize him.
He stirs and opens one puffy eye. “Who are you?”
“Blakely.” A plastic bottle of water rests on the desk so I bite down on the cap and drop it on the floor next to him. “You are?”
“Philip.”
“How long have you been down here?” I kneel, squeeze the bottle with my knees and turn the cover off with my teeth.
Scooting forward on my butt and using my knees and nose, I manage to get a few drops into his mouth.
He swallows and coughs. “What day is it?”
“Thanksgiving.” I bite the lip of the bottle, carry it to the desk, and let it tip onto its side. As it spills, I lap, cat-like.
When I’ve had my fill, I bring it back to the injured man who’s now sitting with has back against the wall. “I was kidnapped over a month ago. They keep moving me around.”
“Is he the one who beat you up?” I shift my eyes out the door to where Mr. Sneer sits in one of the broken-down golf carts having no problem drinking his water.
Philip lifts up a little so he can follow my gaze. “I never saw him before.”
The fucked-up-ness of my situation grows exponentially as his words sink in. “Just how many are there?”
He shrugs and turns his poor battered face toward me. “I’m not sure but I’ve seen over a dozen at any given time.”
This is far worse than I thought. “Did you notice how he’s not bothering to hide his face from us?”
“None of them do. That’s why I tried to escape but they caught me, beat me, and broke my leg…” He stares down and looks so beaten, my heart goes out to him.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. But what do they want with you?”
