Darla’s attention snaps back. She shakes her head. “N-no…but if we take the elevator down to the basement area, there’s a long service tunnel that the cleaning staff and caterers used to use sometimes. It leads back up to the road. Hasn’t been in operation since the extensions to the hospital twenty years ago, but it’s still there.”
“They’ll be waiting for us,” Frank says.
“I’m not sure about that, sir,” Darla says. “The doors at the end to get out need a high-level pass to open, and, well, I think Mr. D’Amato’s security people have been watching it, along with our own hospital security.” Darla looks Frank right in the face when she replies. I like that about her, that she never treats him as less than a person, despite what he looks like. “Plus there are rooms that come off the tunnel. We could find somewhere to hide.”
She’s smart, too. Vitaliwillhave men watching the doors. They might already be dead, of course. But hiding down there is the best chance we have.
“Let’s go,” I say, and Finch gets behind me to push.
“If this is some setup to get me alone in a fucking basement—” Garcia starts, cutting off when I snort.
Frank walks right past her to scan the hall outside again. “We’re good to go. Darla, honey, you come up here with me, tell me which way.” Darla scurries to his side, peering fearfully around him.
Finch starts pushing me forward. As we pass Garcia, I say, “If you want to stay here, Detective, you’re more than welcome. But if you come with us, we’ll protect you if you protect us. You have my word.”
I don’t have the energy to turn around and watch her make up her mind, but I do hear her muttered curse, and her footsteps bringing up the rear. I’m glad she’s decided to join us. She seems well-trained if nothing else.
And I’m really not sure how accurate my shooting will be right now.
“It’s left and then right at the corner,” Darla is saying to Frank. “The old elevators are around there.” Frank puts her against the wall, and goes ahead to check the corner. Garcia pushes past Finch and me to stand guard in the hallway facing the other way. On the way through the door, Finch bangs the wheelchair into the doorframe and I hiss with pain.
“I’m sorry, oh God, sorry, baby,” he gasps, kneeling down next to me.
I manage to smile at him. “Don’t be sorry, angel. Just try to drive straight, eh?”
“Let’s move it,” Garcia warns. Finch backs the wheelchair up a little and makes it through the door. We make it to the corner, then into the elevator. It takes me that long to get my vision clear. I’m shivering, the pain making me cold, but I clench my teeth together and force myself to keep still.
If we’re going to get out of this alive, I will need to shoot straight and true.
The elevator goes down slowly, and when it opens up there’s a blank cement wall opposite, with a cool, shadowy corridor stretching either side. Without speaking, Darla points the direction she wants us to go, and Frank crouches and ducks his head around the side to check it out, while Garcia takes the other view.
“Clear,” she murmurs.
“Let’s do this,” Frank says, standing up again.
Finch is extra careful wheeling me out of the elevator and into the hallway, although I’d rather he went for speed rather than worrying about my pain. But I say nothing. It’s not the time to bicker.
At the end of the long tunnel, which slopes gently upwards the whole way, we can see that it gets lighter. The overhead lights are mostly off, though every now and then one is still flickering—enough to light the way. There are enough doors set in both sides of the wall that it slows us down, having to stop and check each one. I can hear Finch panting a little as he has to push harder at the wheelchair up the sloping floor.
I have my pain under control—as much as I possibly can, anyway—and I’m confident that I’ll be able to defend Finch if we run into any undesirables. Darla is moving briskly now, and I can see she wants to run, but is smart enough to stay behind Frank instead of making a break for it. Garcia is still on edge, no doubt imagining some ambush for her. But so far, so good.
We get about halfway before it all goes to hell.
Chapter Eighteen
FINCH
I’m leaning over Luca’s shoulder to check on him, wheezing in his ear like some decrepit—pushing the weight of a wheelchairplusLucaupa slope is quite a fucking work out—when there’s an explosion up ahead, the blast waves strong enough to flatten even Frank against the wall, and Luca and I go skidding backward into Garcia. If I hadn’t been leaning over him, I think I would have tumbled head over ass. As it is, I just slam into Garcia, and both of us are pinned against the wall for a moment with Luca’s wheelchair, which has careened sideways. Luca is slumped to the side.
“Shit,” Garcia spits. I have to agree. We can hear yelling and screaming from up ahead, running feet, gunfire.
Someone is trying to force their way into the tunnel, and I don’t think they’re friendly.
But my first focus is Luca. I manage to shove the wheelchair forward and slide out from behind it, coming around to crouch down and look at his face. He’s gone dead white again, as pale as he ever was while he was in that godawful coma, but his eyes crack open when I shake him. I can see the agony written clearly on his face, and his eyes can’t focus on mine.
I’m worried he hit his head on the wall. And worse, there’s a red stain on his hospital gown. If his blood has soaked through all those bandages, it means he’s bleedingreallybadly. They fucking mummified him.
“Luca,” I say urgently, pressing against the wound as hard as I dare.
