Sweat trickled down James Hayward’s back. The hot sun and vicious humidity were in full force. He couldn’t see his CIA watchers, but he could feel their presence.
He pulled his hat low on his brow and walked swiftly through the academic enclave northeast of the intersection of Ang Mo Kyo Avenues Five and Eight. Crests of Singapore’s prestigious Nanyang Polytechnic adorned all the buildings in sight, except for the one he entered.
Inside the first set of double doors and situated just beyond a stylized logo that read ChemEspaña was a card reader and keypad. Hayward removed the identification badge from his pocket, swiped it in front of the reader, and typed in the code.
The door yielded to reveal a spacious air-conditioned lobby attended by a bored-looking guard who paid Hayward no mind as he walked past. Hayward summoned an elevator and swiped his access badge across another card reader. He typed the numeric code and selected a floor marked “R.” As the elevator doors closed, he wondered if the letter stood for “restricted.”
The elevator deposited him in a small nondescript lobby. He readjusted his hat to prevent a clear view of his face from the security camera overhead, then swiped the access badge for a third time at an entrance marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” He heard a latch retreat and he pushed open the door, which felt heavy for its size.
His heart thudded in his chest as another surge of adrenaline coursed through him. Please be here, he pleaded as he walked down a long hallway of closed doors, each with its own keycard reader.
His eyes darted between doors, watching for signs of anyone entering the hallway, but the building appeared to be just as empty of people as Hayward had been promised. Something about a ChemEspaña awards luncheon.
The lurching sensation in his gut was uncomfortable but familiar. It reminded him of the way he felt when he used to steal secrets from the US Embassy in Caracas. That little misadventure ended three years ago but it felt like another era entirely. Hayward was a different man now. Sober. Skilled. No longer a third-rate economist rotting in a cubicle selling useless secrets because he was bored and drunk and stupid. Now a third-rate CIA slave struggling to get through the last mission of his miserable little life, he thought bitterly.
He stopped at door R23, played the security card game for a fourth time, and stepped inside. The room was completely dark and had the unmistakable sound and smell of computer equipment. He paused to let his eyes adjust, not daring to turn on the lights, and located the object of his mission: the two-drawer safe in the corner of the room.
His hands tingled with nerves. He walked deliberately to the safe, fished a small flashlight from his pocket, and worked the electronic lock on the bottom drawer of the safe, reciting the combination in his mind.
His breathing shallowed as he completed the sequence of numbers, his hands trembling slightly. The clack of the latch startled him. It was terrifyingly loud. He held his breath. If he were caught, the whole thing would be over in a flash and he would surely die in vain.
And so would she, along with her mother and father.
Seconds passed. He heard no movement in the hallway. He twisted the latch and slowly pulled the drawer open.
He played the small flashlight over the open safe drawer. Panic rose in his chest. “No,” he whispered. “This can’t be.” He shoved one hand inside the drawer, and then both, feeling around frantically for what he needed.
But it was no use. The safe was empty.
His mind raced. Where the hell was it? Joao had promised! Returning empty-handed was not an option. It would mean the deal was off, and that was not an acceptable turn of events. They were waiting for him to emerge from the building with the package. Then they would whisk him away and kill him. Painlessly, they promised. His life for hers. Katrin and her family would be left alone. He was responsible for their predicament and he would make it right. It would be his last act on Earth. It was bitter and unfathomable, but Hayward couldn’t imagine trying to live each day with her blood on his hands. It would haunt him, rot him from the inside, kill him a thousand times over.
But returning without the package? The consequences would be dire. His death would be protracted and miserable. And so would hers.
Hayward couldn’t bear to ponder what they would do to her, the violations and atrocities they would inflict trying to extract what they wanted. He’d seen it firsthand and he’d lived it himself. He couldn’t imagine Katrin Ferdinand-Xavier’s fine, delicate frame enduring the onslaught for long.
He shuddered. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he felt sick. He’d been trained for situations like this, but today was different. Everything had changed in an instant. He stared at the empty safe. The hard drive was gone, and with it, all his leverage. He had to get to her, to protect her, to somehow stave off the inevitable for long enough to secure her escape. But how?
He struggled to focus his mind. He hadn’t seen his watchers during his ingress to the ChemEspaña building, but he knew they were there. They would undoubtedly be stationed somewhere with an unobstructed view of the building’s entrance, waiting for him to walk out. Four of them, at least, if they kept to Company policy. Probably more, given that he was a trained agent with better-than-average field skills. Could he fool them long enough to get somewhere safe? Where could he possibly go?
There was the Yio Chu Kang SMRT subway station at the northwestern end of the Nanyang Polytechnic campus, but that would entail traveling in the opposite direction from his planned egress. They would know within two steps that he was up to something.
There was a second SMRT station a couple of miles south of campus, but he would have to somehow slip right past the agents stationed at his pickup point to make it that far. Those odds were just as slim.
There’s always a way, he reminded himself. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose, and tried to clear his mind. Blood raced through his veins; it sounded like a flood in his ears.
A flood!
The idea was nothing short of reckless, but he saw no other way.
Quickly, Hayward locked the safe, padded to the exit, cracked the door, and, spotting no one in the hallway, made for the elevator. It arrived an agonizing minute later. Hayward held his breath as the doors parted, but there was no one inside.
He stepped in and studied the controls carefully. It took him a moment to locate the floor he wanted, marked “SB,” or sub-basement. There was no guarantee it would contain what he needed, but he was critically short of good ideas, so it was worth a try.
He calmed his nerves as the elevator descended, exhaling in relief as the elevator passed the ground floor without stopping. Was fortune suddenly on his side? He hoped so. He was past due for a positive turn, he figured.
The elevator came to a halt and the door opened into a dim, dank space. It smelled strongly of stagnant water and a steady drip echoed from somewhere in the darkness. Hayward took that as an encouraging sign.
He stepped forward into the gloom, his flashlight beam beating back a small swath of darkness. The space was completely undeveloped, save for a chain-link cage in the corner containing various janitorial supplies. The concrete floor was smooth, sloped, and damp, and Hayward nearly lost his footing as he made his way to the lowest point of the sub-basement.
The slope of the concrete floor evened out and Hayward found himself standing on a large drainage grate. Suspended above the grate by a chain was a large metal sign with an admonishment written in the four official languages of Singapore. Hayward read the English line: “Warning: Flash Flood Emergency Drain. DO NOT BLOCK.”
Hayward picked the lock on the janitor’s supply cage, liberated a sturdy metal bucket and a mop with a long metal handle, and returned to the flood drain. He wedged the mop handle into the large grate, set the bucket upside-down to use as a fulcrum, and applied his weight to the end of the mop.
The grate did nothing, then groaned, then separated from its jamb with a loud metallic screech. Hayward paused and listened, heart racing, expecting fast footfalls and loud voices, fearful the noise would bring unwanted attention. But he heard only the steady drip of water.
He reached for the exposed edge of the grate, grasped it with his hands, and hefted the grate open on its hinges. He kept pushing until gravity took over on the opposite side and the drain cover crashed wide open onto the concrete floor.
He took a moment to catch his breath. When the reverberations subsided, Hayward listened intently. There were no footsteps, no angry shouts, no signs anyone had noticed the noise. There was only the faint sound of rushing water.
Hayward shined his flashlight into the dark abyss of the massive flood drain. Its yawning maw swallowed the beam of light. It looked infinitely deep. More adrenaline surged through his veins and his legs trembled. He choked back vomit. He hated water. He hated dark places. I’m going to die down there, he thought.
But maybe not. Maybe the billion-dollar flood control system would deposit him somewhere far away, beyond the reach of his Agency handlers. Maybe he would survive, regroup, marshal his wits and resources. Maybe then he could somehow find Katrin and steal her away to safety.
He stared down the massive storm drain. It was dark and terrifying, the subject of nightmares, and a wave of dizziness came over him. At least this way, there’s a chance, he told himself.
Hayward took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leapt feet-first into the opening. His stomach lurched as his body accelerated into the blackness. His shoulder grazed the cold, slimy concrete of the drain wall and his body twisted in midair. He braced for another impact with the hard concrete, but it never came. He fell further and faster. He howled in fear.
He plunged underwater. The speed of his fall carried him deep beneath the surface. His body seized in the brutal, shocking cold. His eyes opened wide in panic as the pressure mounted and his lungs demanded air. There was no light to see by and he had no sense of where the surface was. His lungs screamed for a breath, his limbs flailed, and all around him was roaring darkness.
His body accelerated with some swift, unseen current. He clawed and kicked in desperation, praying he was swimming up toward the surface and not deeper underwater, knowing he had only moments before his body succumbed.
Primordial, biological panic set in. His diaphragm spasmed and his limbs flailed. To his horror, his mouth opened. Cold, dirty water flooded in. He knew his last moments were upon him.
Then, suddenly, he was back at the surface. His body needed air. Against his own will, he inhaled. The water in his throat flooded his lungs, and the current tossed him under again. His vision closed in and he saw stars, his senses desperate for breath, his arms and legs thrashing against the inexorable downward pull.
The roiling current tossed him to the surface again, long enough for a vomiting cough and a sputtering breath and a gasp of panicked exhaustion. Then came a violent corner and Hayward’s body slammed into the concrete. A bright flash erupted inside his skull and he lost consciousness. The water carried his limp body deeper into the darkness.