It was hard to tell the difference.
“Unless you have a secret way out of here”—she frowned as she watched him hand his cell phone to Eliza and then pocket a cheap-looking flip phone—“I don’t see how you’ll be able to stop them.”
“As it happens”—Eliza walked over to large rolling toolchest—“wedohave a secret way out.”
When she shoved the toolchest aside, a big red button was revealed. She smashed it with her palm and Grace felt her jaw unhinge.
Beetlejuicewas her first thought.
Her second thought wasno flippin’ way.
But as the cracks in the grout lines between the bricks opened wider, revealing a door built into the wall, she was forced to admit her vision wasn’t playing tricks on her.
Unlike theBeetlejuicedoor, BKI’s secret door—please don’t let it lead to the realm of the Recently Deceased—didn’t swing open. It popped forward about a foot before sliding to the left on some sort of rail system.
She was hit in the face with a waft of cool air that smelled dank and fishy, like one of her dad’s old minnow buckets. And she wasn’t sure what she expected to jump out of the dark void. A colony of screeching bats? Freddy Kruger? Pennywise the Clown?
I mean, any and all horrors would be par for the course given my recent run of bad luck.
But the only thing that met her eyes was an inky-black tunnel not much wider than an SUV. Its paved floor quickly disappeared below the level of the shop. And the hollow sound of dripping water echoed out of the dark cavity.
“Seriously.” She blinked. “Whoareyou people?”
Instead of answering, Hunter handed her a helmet. “Saddle up.”
Shecouldn’task more questions after that. He’d already swung his leg over the fantastical green motorcycle and cranked over its engine. The shop was filled with the bike’s throaty roar.
“Thank you,” she said, or rathermouthed, to Eliza who, along with Sam, had taken on the herculean task of not only trying to help her clear her name, but also help her escape the clutches of Moscow’s favorite executioner.
No matter how things ended up, she would be eternally grateful to these people. And she hoped to express that by pressing a hand to her heart and making sure her gratitude shined in her eyes. Then she did the only thing she could. She flung a leg over the motorcycle’s seat and hoped she didn’t bust the seam in the ass of her borrowed jeans while doing it.
When Hunter motored them to the mouth of the tunnel, she pulled the list Eliza had asked for from her jacket pocket and handed it over. It contained everything she could think of that might help Sam and his hacker friend: her email address, her phone number, all her passwords, thedirector’semail address.
Eliza placed the folded sheet in her pocket and offered Grace a reassuring smile. Grace nodded then turned back to the yawning mouth of the dark, dank tunnel and felt her stomach drop down in an attempt to exit her ass.
She made herself focus on the breadth of Hunter’s broad back pressed against her breasts and the feel of her thighs cradling his lean hips. It was either than or hop off the motorcycle and run screaming outside and straight into the arms of the FBI.
She’d hated closed-in spaces ever since she was six years old and accidently locked herself inside her grandmother’s root cellar for an entire afternoon and—
Oh, lord. Here we go.
The front of the bike dipped over the lip of the tunnel. And just like that they were going down, down,down.
She wanted to close her eyes. But she was afraid she might miss the ghosties and ghoolies waiting for her to let down her guard before swooping in to tear out her eyeballs or rip off her helmet to snatch her baldheaded.
When she tightened her arms around Hunter’s waist, he gave her a comforting pat with his gloved hand.
So much for showing him I’m a strong, independent woman capable of facing all comers, she thought miserably.I can’t even face an underground tunnel without losing my shit.
Then again, what person in their right mindwouldn’tbe freaked out by concrete walls oozing water—or maybesweatingwas the more appropriate verb—like a dank crypt?
The tight tunnel seemed to narrow as they descended farther below the earth’s surface until the only light was the one created by the bike’s headlight. It was impossible to guess which direction they were going, but something told her they were travelingunderthe river.
Under the damn Chicago River!
She imagined a tiny crack forming in the walls that would quickly become a monster fissure. She imagined water rushing in to fill up the cramped space. She imagined treading water and pressing her cheek to the top of the underground passage as she fought to drag in a final breath of air.
She wasn’t sure which was worse. Death by drowning, death by a subterranean soul-sucking phantom, or death by Orpheus?
