The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [152]
Palmiotti never got to see her.
But he knew Clementine wasn’t letting go.
110
Anybody there…? ” I call out, holding tight to the gun as I turn yet another corner in yet another poorly lit stretch of cave. “Clementine…?”
The only answer comes from the fire alarm, whose howl rings hard at the base of my skull.
A minute ago, I thought I heard the muffled thuds of Palmiotti running, but now…
Nothing but alarm.
Racing forward and holding the gun out in front of me, I lick the salty bits of sweat from my lips. At first, I told myself it was nerves. It’s not. The deeper I go, the hotter it gets.
This isn’t just the maintenance area of the cave. By the hum that rumbles just below the fire alarm, this is where all the HVAC and mechanical equipment is.
Picking up speed, I rush past a dusty spray-painted Car Wash sign and some still-soapy sponges, yet as I turn the next corner, there’s a sudden dead end.
On my right, there’s a door for an Emergency Exit. But straight ahead, built into the construction wall, there’s a swinging panel that… huh… is still swinging.
My fingers tighten around the trigger. There’s no question where they are. I can wait here for help. I can play it absolutely safe. But if either of them gets away…
I take my first step toward the wooden wall, and the fire alarm stops, leaving me in a sudden vacuum of silence that’s so severe, the only sound that exists is that phantom hum that follows you home when you leave a loud rock concert.
Straight ahead, the doggie door continues to swing, squeaking off-key.
Below my feet, with every step, bits of rock pop like glass.
In the distance, there’s a chirp I can’t place.
But what hits me like an axe in the stomach—as I approach the swinging panel and use the barrel of the gun to shove it open—is that there’s not a single noise coming from inside.
111
Palmiotti knew what to do.
Even now… with his head underwater… with her hands around his throat… Palmiotti knew what to do if he wanted to breathe again.
Thrashing wildly, he clapped his arms together so his fists collided with Clementine’s ears.
He couldn’t hear her scream. But he did feel her let go. His head broke the surface of the water. Gasping for fresh air, he heard the fire alarm still ringing. Water dripped from his nose, from his ears, from his chin. His neck—where he’d been shot—was burning now. From the amount of blood that soaked his right shoulder, he knew his internal jugular vein was lacerated. It was bad. Much worse than his forearm. But at least he could breathe.
Still coughing uncontrollably, he rolled sideways in the shallow water. He couldn’t see much, but there were small cracks of light in the plywood wall. His eyes adjusted fast.
Clementine rushed at him, raising her gun to—
Krkkk.
Palmiotti kicked hard—it was nothing but instinct—as his heel rammed Clementine’s unbent knee.
The crack was audible. Clementine’s leg nearly hyperextended as muscles and tendons were pulled like piano wire. Tumbling forward, she nosedived into the water.
She fought hard to get up, quickly climbing to her good knee. She knew what was coming.
She wasn’t nearly fast enough.
The first kick slammed into her stomach, lifting her off the ground and taking all the wind out of her.
“D’you even realize how stupid you are!?” Palmiotti growled, spit flying with every syllable. “Even before the hospital file—just on the threat of you knowing what we did to Eightball—we were willing to give you everything! You had us! You’d actually won!”
Clementine’s head was still down. Palmiotti gripped the back of her hair, twisting her head until she faced him and…
Pmmmp.
He rammed his knee in her face, sending her tumbling backward, splashing into the water. As fast as she could, she crabwalked back, trying to get away. She had no chance.
“Instead, when