The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [35]
Floyd nodded to a door set flush on the wall to a side of the theater. Laurel opened it and selected the largest shears she could find. “Bring the apron over.”
Cursing under her breath at the toughness of the lead and polymer-fabric sandwich of the radiation protector, she managed to cut three-inch strips. When she finished, Laurel hurled one to Raul, another to Floyd for Russo, and wrapped the last around her neck. Then she stepped back to the wall cupboard to retrieve the adhesive bandages she’d spotted earlier.
When they finished, Russo and Raul looked like accident victims after having their necks immobilized. Laurel didn’t hold any illusions of looking better. On the screen, the spiky trace had disappeared, leaving only Russo’s heartbeat sailing across.
“Now what?” Lukas croaked.
Laurel darted a glance at Raul; it was her decision, but her legs had started to quiver again. After hearing an incredible tale from a man she’d never seen or met, judiciously doled out in several telephone conversations, she’d volunteered to help in springing Russo from the DHS’s clutches. Shepherd’s original plan contemplated enlisting three ex-professional soldiers to make up the team, but it was clear from the onset that it wouldn’t work. Men with proven military records would stick out like sore thumbs when they went through the sham trial. She had recruited Raul and Bastien, in the process becoming the team leader.
“Now we get the hell out of here.” Raul made a show of looking at an overhead digital clock. “The DHS’s legions must be massing outside.”
“Get out? Beam out is more likely.” Floyd seemed to have recovered his wits.
Raul wrinkled his nose and Laurel felt her stomach heave. “We go the same way we came in.” It was their only chance. To seal the sewers, the DHS needed an army they didn’t have. To enlist the police, they would need to broadcast the breakout, and they wouldn’t do that. Not yet.
“You’ve got to be joking.” Lukas held on to his towel and jerked his head around like a caged animal.
“Be my guest.” Raul shrugged. “You can try the front door if you like.”
“Better get him ready to travel.” Floyd had moved to the table and was drawing the catheter from Russo.
Laurel stared at Floyd. “You can’t stay here,” she said.
“A brilliant conclusion.”
“Look—”
“Plan to hit the sewers decked in towels?” Floyd sounded amused.
Laurel turned to Raul and froze as the image of waders with an inch of fatty sewage inside flashed through her mind. Unconsciously, she bunched her toes. “Shit.”
From the far side of the theater, Floyd unfolded a thermal sack to place Russo in and nodded to Raul for help. He then reached for the sack’s fastener and ripped. “Another brilliant conclusion.”
chapter 15
22:01
Their script gone, Laurel fought the waves of terror radiating from her belly, blanking reason with images of dark corners where she could curl up and cry. Their carefully researched plan called for a precise set of steps. Once Russo had been stabilized and housed at Nyx, Dr. Carpenter would have driven them to a prearranged meeting point on the northern fringes of the city to rendezvous with Shepherd. Then they would have laid low for as long as necessary until Russo recovered. Not long, according to Shepherd. Now, like cornered animals, they could only run. But where? She was racing toward the showers to throw the filthy gear back on when Floyd grabbed her arm and pointed to a storeroom where the cleaning detail kept clean wet suits, waders, and tools. Laurel could have hugged him, hard. A minute later, when Lukas, Raul, and Laurel rushed back into the surgical theater, Floyd had already cocooned Russo in a bag, probably one of those used to move cadavers to incineration. She recalled Shepherd mentioning that, even with the lavish care bestowed by Nyx, often the bodies were so badly damaged after protracted commercial hibernation—by whatever sickness had gotten them there in the first place—that the only thing the family ever got back was condolences.
Floyd threw loaded syrettes, an instrument