61
BY VIRTUE OF her position, Corrie had to be the first out of the vent. There was no way to pass one another in the narrow space. That meant she had to be the one to take out the guard.
Watts held out a knife. “Cut his throat,” he whispered. “Otherwise, he’ll make noise.”
Corrie felt sick. She’d never killed anyone—certainly not in a way as cold-blooded as this.
Watts sensed her hesitation. “It takes a lot more force than you might think. If you don’t cut all the way through the cartilage on the first swipe, he could still manage to scream.”
The guard in the doorway had finished his fries and was now just standing, slouched, marking time. He was surprisingly old, close to fifty, a sad sack of a soldier.
“I can’t do this,” Corrie whispered.
“We’ve got no choice. For all we know, they blew up everyone back at the camp.”
Corrie swallowed. “I still can’t.”
After a moment, Watts sighed quietly. “I respect that.”
Then she heard him tap loudly on the side of the pipe.
She waited, holding her breath. The soldier turned and glanced into the room, looking first one way and then the other. He took a step inside, hit a switch to turn on the lights. He peered around, then made a perfunctory tour; seeing nothing amiss, he returned to the door and turned off the lights.
Right behind her, Watts tapped again on the duct, twice, even more loudly. She could feel his breath on her neck.
The guard’s head jerked upward. Now he was on high alert. He turned the lights back on and came slowly over to their area, looking around. He didn’t look up. He walked past and stopped. And then he looked up.
Corrie didn’t dare move. Her view was between narrow louvers. From below, the guard’s eyes were fixated on the vent. He moved closer, squinting, and removed his rifle. The expression on his face was more suspicious than certain. He took another step, staring upward, scanning the ceiling beyond the vent.
She felt Watts touch her shoulder. “Plug your ears.”
She did.
“Up here!” said Watts loudly. The soldier’s face registered surprise and fear as he swung around, his eyes fixing again on the vent. He raised his weapon.
Watts fired through the louver. The soldier’s head snapped back in a spray of blood and matter, the weapon clattering to the floor.
“Go,” said Watts.
Corrie kicked open the vent and dropped down, followed immediately by Watts and Skip. The soldier lay sprawled grotesquely in a spreading pool of blood.
“We’ll fight them from the cover of these computers,” said Watts. “Nice knowing you.”
They ran into the rows of servers and waited for the response. Seconds ticked by, then minutes.
“I’ll be damned,” said Watts. “I don’t think anyone’s coming.”
They let another minute pass.
“I’ll bet they’re all busy with shit elsewhere,” said Skip. “Looking for us outside, maybe.”
They cautiously approached the door where the dead soldier lay. Skip hesitated a second, then reached down and took his sidearm, wiping it on the man’s uniform. The gun was, she noted, identical to hers and Lime’s: standard issue for military and law enforcement.
Beyond the door, a broad cinder-block hall, painted yellow and green, ran for a hundred feet. There were no signs of security cameras or guards and no doors.
Watts stepped out and led the way, walking silently, communicating with hand signals, while Corrie covered the rear. At the first corner Watts halted and peered around, then waved them forward.
The next corridor was lined with lettered doors. The corridors branched, then branched again: more lettered doors, more unknown rooms, but no people. The place was obviously huge—and although everything looked clean and well-kept, it was oddly deserted.
Watts stopped and touched his ear.
Listening, Corrie could hear sounds at the very edge of audibility. There were people ahead.
“Incredible there’s no CCTV system in here,” Skip whispered.
“They probably think it’s so secure they don’t need it,” Watts replied.
The corridor ended at a T junction, and before them stood a set of steel doors, slightly ajar, with porthole windows. Cautiously, Corrie peered through the seam between the doors. It revealed a large room that had the look of a lobby in a hospital ward: brightly lit and sterile, with rooms on both sides, one apparently a kitchen. Now Corrie saw the first people since the guard: a woman in uniform beside a man carrying a tray of food. They crossed the lobby and approached a room. As the door opened and shut, Corrie briefly heard a woman’s voice, loud and angry.