The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [45]
“I’m telling you, there’s no reason to turn ourselves in,” Shep adds, hoping to ram it home. “If we play it smart, we’ll all be whistling a wealthy tune.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” I snap back. “We can’t win. Think of what you said when we started—it’s a perfect crime when no one knows it’s gone; it’s only three million dollars—that was your whole big speech. And where are we now? Three hundred and thirteen million missing… the Secret Service parked in our front yards… and when the press get ahold of it… plus whoever wanted this money in the first place… by the time this is done, the whole world’s gonna be hunting our asses.”
“I’m not disagreeing,” Shep says. “But that doesn’t mean we have to go for the hara-kiri on day one either. Besides, there’s no way Lapidus is letting this get out. If he does, the other clients’ll start hurtling for the exits. It’s like when that guy hacked ten million out of Citibank a few years back—they did everything in their power to keep it out of the papers—”
“But eventually, it was on page one,” I interrupt. “The word always gets out. There’re no secrets anymore—this isn’t the Fifties. Even if Lapidus can hold it back for a month… between reports, and insurance claims, and lawsuits… it’ll eventually worm its way free. And then we’re back where we are right now… three dumb sitting ducks who—”
There’s a loud thump, and we all stop. It’s not like the random clangs that echo from the other tracks. Whatever just made that noise, it was in the room.
Shep jerks his head to the left and scans the crumbling concrete wall, but there’s nothing in sight. Just a few long-abandoned electrical boxes and some faded graffiti.
“I thought it came from up there,” Charlie whispers anxiously as he points toward the shadows of the arched ceiling. Between the lack of lighting and the stains from the soot, every arch is a dark floating cave.
“Were you followed?” Shep mouths.
I stop for a second. “No… I don’t think so. Unless—”
Shep covers his lips in a Shhhh motion. Rotating his neck side to side, side to side, side to side, he scans the rest of the room with military precision. But it doesn’t take years of Secret Service training to tell me what my gut already knows. We all get the same out-of-body feeling when we’re being watched. And as Charlie nervously glances around, a pregnant silence settles on the room, and we can’t help but feel like we no longer have this place to ourselves.
“Let’s get out of here,” Charlie says.
But just as he turns to the door, there’s another noise. Not a thud. More like a creak. I instinctively look up, but it’s not coming from the ceiling. Or the walls. It’s lower.
There’s another quiet creak and we all look down. “Behind you,” Charlie motions to Shep. He spins around and checks out a section of flat wood planks that’re built into the ground like a mini-life-raft.
“What’re those?” I ask quietly.
“Vertical passageways. Underneath the planks, they lead down to the tracks below,” Charlie explains. “That’s how they move the big equipment and generators—they just take out the wood and lower them through the holes.” He’s trying to sound relaxed, but from the crinkle in his forehead—and the way he backs away from the planks—I can tell he’s creeped out. He’s not the only one.
“Can we please get out of here?” I ask.
Bending down toward the floor, Shep angles his head, trying to peer between the planks of wood. It’s like staring into an underground air-conditioning vent. “You sure it’s from here?” he asks. “Or is it echoing from somewhere else?” Changing course, Charlie moves in for a closer look.
“Charlie, get away from there,” I plead.
There’s another creak. Then another. Slow at first, but getting faster.
Shep looks up and re-scouts the entire tunnel. If it is an echo,