The Highway had shifted into an after-dinner frenzy. The long tunnel’s traffic was as backed up as rush hour, with more garbage cans and stacked carts of soiled napkins and tablecloths. Jack wasn’t helping. He stopped each one, pawing through, searching. For a video camera. Or even Ramazan.
I hit Redial on my cell phone.
Geert answered, “What now?”
I turned my head away from the crew passing by and quickly described the tripod in the bathroom. “They’re filming the dressing rooms. And they made an escape route through an air vent.”
Jack turned, rolling his hands at me, signaling hurry up.
“We’re on the Highway, in pursuit.”
“I’m coming down—”
“Good, but where’s the best hideout down here?”
There was a pause. “Cold storage. The freezers. They will be shutting down for the night.”
At its middle, the Highway opened like a cross, splitting into two refrigerated wings. Jack ran left, I turned right. My feet splashed through warm water that smelled of bleach.
In one corner, a man wearing rubber boots blasted a high-powered hose at the welded steel floor.
“See anybody run through?” I asked.
He smiled. “What I see?”
As he reached down, twisting the brass nozzle to increase water volume, I felt a twinge in my gut. He kept smiling pleasantly and spraying the area. The air filled with bleached steam.
I held up a hand, signaling him to stop. But he kept spraying.
“Thanks!” I yelled, stepping around him. “I’ll try somewhere else!”
I moved to the door he seemed to be guarding. My right hand automatically patted for my gun. Rats. I glanced back at the guy. His smile was gone. He laid the hose gently on the floor and raised his hands in surrender as Jack approached with a finger to his lips, telling the man to keep quiet.
“No see nothing.” The guy backed away even farther. “See nothing!”
Jack pointed down the Highway. The guy splashed across the wet floor.
We stood on either side of the door, staring at each other. I waited for his signal, then he pivoted, ducking inside. I followed.
It was the butchery. The long steel counters glistened with water. A shelf above held industrial-size rolls of white butcher paper and twine. Below that, magnetized strips displayed dozens of knives. On our right, three freezer doors were labeled for pork, beef, and chicken.
Jack pointed to the knives. There was a gap. Judging from what hung on either side, a bone slicing cleaver was missing. Reaching up, Jack yanked two knives from the magnetic strip. He gave me the six-inch utility blade; he kept a ten-inch thing shaped like a machete.
We stood on opposite sides of the first freezer door. A small square window was covered with condensation and I wondered how long Ramazan could survive in there. The cleanup guy was probably supposed to open the freezer after the threat passed.
In exchange for—what?
Porn?
Jack signaled, reached out, and yanked the long chrome handle. The heavy door swung open. Cold air rushed out, smelling of heavy metals, the iron of beef blood. Jack jabbed his head—in, out, in— then gave the all clear. I stood up. Icy shelves stocked with brilliant red cuts, veined with fat.
Quietly Jack closed the door and I crouched, scurrying under the window in the next door. But I never made it. The door suddenly burst open, striking the top of my head like a sledgehammer. White lights flashed in front of my eyes. I fell to the floor and heard my knife drop. Clamping both hands on top of my head, I tried to stand but lurched instead, blind with pain. Jack was yelling but the room was blurred. I saw two dark shapes, running, escaping through the pocket door.
I staggered forward, bumping into the counter before I tripped over the threshold, splashing through the puddle outside. The world spun and the smell of bleach made me want to vomit. The hose was slithering like a snake across the wet steel, trying to release its hot water. Jack was calling my name. I placed one hand on the wall, moving toward the next room.
Eyes watering, I pivoted toward his voice. I smelled apples. Fruit. Produce storage room. I blinked and saw Ramazan standing with his back to the shelves. The meat cleaver was raised, daring us to approach, and the lights played on the flat of the blade. In his eyes, in his cold pale eyes, I saw the predator’s sense of play. A shiver shot down my spine.
“Raleigh?” Jack kept his eyes on Ramazan, not turning toward me.
“Right here.” I stepped over the door’s threshold. The room seemed to shimmer. And I realized my knife was back in the other room.
“Ramazan, we know about you and Serif,” Jack said. “He’s in custody. Put down the knife. There’s nowhere to run.”
The moment was short. Ramazan lowered the blade in his right hand. His left came up, as if to surrender, but his fingers grabbed the edge of a box. It was above his head and he thrust it, slashing down with the blade.
Jack jumped back from the knife. The box flew forward and apples came pitched like baseballs. Jack and I both kept our arms up, guarding our faces, but Ramazan was flinging more boxes, oranges and limes firing through the air. Crouched to the side to avoid being hit, I saw Ramazan making a run for the door. I swung out my left leg, trying to tackle him. He swung the cleaver down, aiming for my knee.
“Raleigh, let him go!”
He jumped over the last of the rolling fruit and was leaping through the door when he reached back. His open palm slapped a bright red button beside the door frame. A siren screamed, earpiercing, as Ramazan yanked his arm though the opening. The pneumatic door slammed shut like a guillotine.
I had both hands over my ears, pressing hard. But my eyes hadn’t quite figured out the sight at the door.
The fingers splayed, twitching. It looked as disembodied as a glove. Then it turned red and blood poured down the door seam.
Despite the siren, despite a four-inch steel door between us, I could hear the bloodcurdling scream of the predator.