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“I’M GETTING TOO OLD for this,” Doctor Simon said as they took a brief rest break. She bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “Running through the tunnels is a game for the younger generation.”
Enrico grinned, leaning against the nearest wall. “We’ve kept a decent pace, Doc, but I wouldn’t call this running. Look on the bright side: at least we’re following the old subway tracks, instead of the sewer route. Aside from the smell, there’s a rather challenging climb up a ladder into the ceiling ducts. I doubt either of us would enjoy it.”
Doc straightened with a groan, pressing her hands against the small of her back. “So I’ve heard. Aubrey told me during one of our physiotherapy sessions.”
She shrugged her shoulders, searching for a comfortable position for her pack. There was none.
Enrico watched her with sad eyes, but Doc pretended not to notice. He opened one of the sagging doors in the tunnel wall with a determined shove.
“It’s not much farther, Doctor Simon,” he said, gesturing to the nondescript door. “There’s two flights of stairs above us, I’m sorry to say, but I have a vehicle waiting.”
“Two flights—is that all? For a second, I thought this was going to be difficult.” Doc took a deep breath, flashed him a tired smile, and nodded at the open door. “And I’m not that old, just for the record. After you, good sir.”
Enrico nodded, leading the way up a winding staircase. Doc felt the aching in her knees as they climbed, accented by the insistent pain in the small of her back from the weight of the rucksack.
Almost there, she told herself with each step.
The stairwell grew brighter as they ascended, daylight leaking in around the edges of a rusty metal door. Enrico threw his weight against it, and the hinges whined as the door swung grudgingly open.
The filtered light was a welcome relief as they exited the stairwell and stepped into a dilapidated warehouse. Enrico’s treasured truck sat waiting in the middle of the empty space, and Doc felt her spirits lift at the sight of it.
The mechanic halted abruptly, throwing out an arm to block her. His sharp intake of breath was all the warning she needed to hear.
A young man, not much older than Amos, stood beside the truck, one arm resting lazily on the hood. There was a glint of red around one eye, visible even in the sun-lit room.
“Ah, the mechanic,” he said, as if his guests were expected. His gaze shifted to Doctor Simon, and he nodded, pleased. “And the physician.”
Enrico found his voice. “You left the fake note at the drop-box.” He sidled in front of Doc as he spoke, shielding her. She chose not to point out the futility of his gesture.
The Tracker didn’t deny Enrico’s accusation. He appeared indifferent to the question. His casual posture did not change as he scanned them from head to foot.
Satisfied, he took three long strides to stand opposite them, his body a barrier between them and Enrico’s truck. The red circle faded, and he was indistinguishable from the average person on the street.
Doc pushed past Enrico to confront the Tracker. “You used to be one of us—a free man, until the Hoarders kidnapped you and turned you over to the Givers.”
“You’re wasting your time, Doc,” Enrico interrupted, his words twisted and bitter. “It’s a killing machine. It only thinks what the Givers want it to think. You can’t reason with it.”
“Is that true?” Doc’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton as she faced the inevitability of her own death. “The Givers sent you to kill us?”
The Tracker cocked his head to one side, his expression neutral. He spoke in an odd monotone.
“Your deaths would serve no purpose. Mateo has another use for you.”