Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [109]
“There!” Viv yells, pointing to her right, just past all the red wagons.
As I follow behind her, she runs toward a narrow wooden door that looks like a closet. “You sure that’s it?” I call out.
She doesn’t bother to answer.
Moving in closer, I finally see what’s got her so excited—not just the small door, but the sliver of bright light that’s peeking through underneath. After all that time underground, I know daylight when I see it.
I’m two steps behind Viv as she throws the door open. It’s like coming out of a dark movie theater and stepping straight into the sun. The blast of sunlight burns my eyes in the best way possible. The whole world lights up with fall colors—orange and red leaves . . . the baby blue sky—that seem neon when compared with the mud below. Even the air—forget that recycled stuff downstairs; as I head up the dirt road in front of us, the sweet smell of plum bushes fills my nose.
“And on the tenth day, God created candy,” Viv sings, sniffing the air for herself. She stares around to take it all in, but I grab her by the wrist.
“Don’t stop now,” I say, tugging her up the dirt road. “Not until we’re out of here.”
Two hundred yards to our left, above the trees, the triangular outline of the main Homestead building slices toward the sky. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but from what I can tell, we’re on the opposite side of the parking lot from where we first started.
A loud siren bursts through the air. I follow it to a bullhorn up on the metal teepee building. There goes the alarm.
“Don’t run,” Viv says, slowing us down even more.
She’s right about that. On the steps of one of the construction trailers, a stocky man with overalls and a buzz cut glances our way. I slow to a casual walk and nod my mining helmet at him. He nods right back. We may not have the overalls, but with the helmets and orange vests, we’ve at least got part of the costume.
A half-dozen men run toward the main mining entrance. Following the road past the trailers, we head in the opposite direction, letting it lead us back to the parking lot. A quick scan around tells me everything’s just as we left it. Tons of cruddy old pickup trucks, two classic Harleys, and— Wait . . . something’s new . . .
One shiny Ford Explorer.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to Viv, who’s already climbing into our Suburban.
“What’re you doing?”
Without answering, I peek through the side window. There’s a map with a Hertz logo on the passenger seat.
“Harris, let’s go! The alarm . . . !”
“In a minute,” I call back. “I just want to check one thing . . .”
55
HOIST . . .” THE FEMALE operator answered.
“You were supposed to bring the cage straight here!” Janos shouted into the receiver.
“I-I did.”
“You sure about that? It didn’t make any other stops?”
“No . . . not one,” she replied. “There was no one in it—why would I make it stop anywhere?”
“If there was no one in it, why was it even moving?!” Janos roared, looking around at the empty room of the basement.
“Th-That’s what he asked me to do. He said it was important.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He said I should bring both cages to the top . . .”
Janos clamped his eyes shut as the woman said the words. How could he possibly miss it? “There’re two cages?” he asked.
“Sure, one for each shaft. You have to have two—for safety. He said he had stuff to move from one to the other . . .”
Janos gripped the receiver even tighter. “Who’s he?”
“Mike . . . he said his name was Mike,” the woman explained. “From Wendell.”
Locking his jaw, Janos turned slightly, peering over his shoulder at the tunnel that led outside. His cagey eyes barely blinked.
“Sorry,” the operator pleaded. “I figured if he was from Wendell, I should—”
With a loud slam, Janos rammed the receiver back in its cradle and took off for the basement stairs. A shrill alarm screamed through the room, echoing up and down the open shaft. In a flash, Janos was gone.
Rushing up the stairs two at a time, Janos burst outside the red brick building and tore back toward the gravel parking lot. On the concrete