His jaw went diamond-hard, crackling the thin layer of ice coating the new growth on his chin. “Who’s in there?”
The moaning went on, and the rattling picked up.
He reached for the handle and hesitated, horror movie images flashing through his head,The Thinghigh on the list. Bat fisted in his gloved hand, he stepped to the side, grabbed ahold of the slide…and pulled.
Inside, the sound stopped.
He pulled again, but the damned lock appeared to be jammed. He bent closer, ran his light up and down then door, and…Sonofabitch.There was a second latch, at the very bottom, in a place where most people would never think to look. And this one was padlocked shut.
He’d have to cut it off.
“You okay in there? This is Serg—” He stopped. “This is Dr. Ford Cooper.” Christ, he’d almost given his rank. That was how fucked up this was. He shut his eyes and went on. “It’s Coop. Who’s in there?”
Moaning. Just moaning, with another bout of shaking and a thump, but the voice was one hundred percent human. And female. And she wanted out.
“I’m gonna get you out, okay?” He tried to soften the hard army edge from his voice. “Hold tight.”
He spun, ready to tear the place apart in search of something to pry open that lock.
Tools. Jameson’s shop was in the utility arch, but there’d be something here. There—a fire extinguisher.
Without hesitation, he pulled it from its red metal case and returned, squatted in front of the door, and beat the shit out of the lock.
It popped off after three good hits. In a rush, he threw the extinguisher to the side, pulled open the door, and just avoided getting brained with a hatchet.
“Whoa! Whoa. Hold it.” He threw his hand out and snatched the tool from her, which wasn’t much of a challenge, given how hard she was shaking. “It’s Coop. Ford Cooper. Not here to hurt you.”
He didn’t need to see her face under the layers of cloth to know this was Angel Smith. Holy shit. As if he’d conjured her.
“I’ve got you. Got you, Angel. Got you.” Shaking from adrenaline and anger and relief, he put an arm around her and shifted into the tunnel. He went still at the sense of déjà vu when he spotted drops of red against the ice, mostly hidden by a messy pile of crates, like the last bit of evidence left from a hasty cover-up.
“What is that? Is that blood?”
“Jamie C—Cor—” Her shuddering took over. “Cortez.”
The name fell on him like an avalanche, covering every bit of hope he’d harbored until now. Shit.
No time for thinking about his abysmal failure at saving his friend. Angel sucked in a wheezy breath and shuddered so hard he almost lost his hold on her.
Sticking the flashlight into his mouth, he bent to slide one arm through her legs and hauled her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. No time to check on her. No time to ask questions. No time for stealth or mourning or regret.
He’d get her warm, keep her alive, and worry about what the hell was going on here later.
As he turned, her foot caught on the pile of crates, overturning the top two and spinning the bottom one out.
Letters had been scrawled across the previously hidden side of the bottom crate. They spelled outCHRONOS COR, which was interesting. But what made him stop and stare in absolute shock wasn’t the words themselves so much as the sloppy, thick, fingerprint-smudged blood in which they’d been written.
Chapter 11
Something poked at Angel. “Mmmmmm.” She turned away.
Water in her mouth, steaming hot, trying to drown her. Coughing, flailing, hands trapped.Stop. Stop it. Stop!
“Drink.”
She froze. The syllable was so scratchy and deep, it was more grunt than word. She should open her eyes, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay asleep. To play dead.
“Drink,” the rough voice ordered again. “So you don’t die.”
