The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [15]
His lab coat ripped when one of his pockets caught on the edge of a water fountain outside the access to tank 909. He tore it open and shrugged his arms free without breaking stride. He careened around a bend in the corridor, smashing his shoulder into the wall. The tearing pain released fresh supplies of adrenaline into his bloodstream, and Lukas sprinted ahead. He glanced at the numbers overhead. 910. Another three hundred feet to go.
When a man turned fifty, most of the decisive events of his life were behind him. It was often too late to start over. For most people, life was just a new comedy with old and tired actors. Only a few got a second chance, and Lukas Hurley wanted to be one. His legs pumped harder.
When he reached the access to tank 913, Lukas couldn’t focus his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs screaming for air like the first time he’d visited Cuzco in Peru, at more than 11,000-feet elevation. Lukas fumbled his card in the lock’s slot but missed. Through blurry eyes, he peered at his shaking hand. He was falling apart. After two more tries, the card slid into the slot and the door snapped open. Five minutes left.
Raul and Laurel jerked in unison when a loud snap sounded at their backs. Laurel swiveled her head and froze. I know this guy! She stared at the man slowly bending in two at the far end of the platform, his back against the closed door. Slight and with thinning red hair, he looked like … Where have I seen this guy before? The man seemed on the verge of collapse, hands cupped over his knees and heaving, his ragged breath whooshing like punctured bellows.
“Into the tank,” he wheezed.
Raul leaned sideways with measured movements and lifted the leg straddling Bastien’s body. When he could plant his feet on the floor, he rose to face the man. “What?”
Laurel turned her head to follow a shape moving behind Raul. The hydraulic arm maneuvered the jellylike net with Eliot Russo inside.
“We must get into the tank,” the man groaned. He neared with an unsteady gait, a hand digging into his left side. In his mid-fifties, with a large nose and sad bloodhound eyes, he—
“What’s your name?” Laurel asked.
The man panted, reached with his other hand to massage his shoulder, and winced. “Lukas.”
She frowned in disbelief. Woody Allen! With tan slacks, sneakers, and a white shirt, Lukas resembled the bygone genius, without eyeglasses. But Lukas probably wore implants.
You will have minutes to recover. Then help one another out of the mesh. Check for damage. Russo will rise last. Leave his net intact; it will give him a measure of protection during transport. Your contact inside the station will join you. You don’t need to know any more about him. Follow his instructions. He will guide you through the station’s secure spur to the sewers. Once in the sewers, follow your plan.
“Look, mister—” But Raul stopped mid-sentence when Lukas darted a glance over his head. Propping a hand on the wall for support, Lukas fished a black matte card from his back pocket and inserted it in an almost undetectable slot a few feet away from where they stood.
His tone changed. “Get Russo over here. Don’t remove his protective net.”
Laurel turned on her heel and stepped toward the descending bundle, careful to avoid the fluid spills. The machine lowered Russo’s cocoon with its characteristic harshness and removed the flexible life-support tube. The bundle stirred. As she squatted and reached to remove Russo’s goggles, Lukas yelled, “Don’t!” in a curious high-pitched tone. “Drag him over here.”
She waited for Raul. On a silent prompt, they gripped Russo’s neck ring and dragged an emaciated, squirming body with surprising ease