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The door slammed and multiple, old-fashioned mechanical locks, scraped shut, metal on metal and in desperate need of some oil.
“At least they kept us together,” said Regan.
“A little too together.” We were back-to-back, each tied to both a chair and to another in the basement of the Church’s warehouse; it was all very... arch. The dimly lit room had low ceilings and was unadorned except for us and a single manhole in the corner. I suspected that was the source the foul stench that drifted into the room; it must lead to the sewer system. “This feels like some sort of goddamned sick joke.”
“Or a movie.”
“Greene’s no supervillain,” I said. I pulled at the plastic straps holding me to the frame of the chair and to my partner; there was no give, and the ties were tight enough to cut off the blood to my hands if I wasn’t careful about how I moved. “He’s just a killer.”
“A prolific killer; I can’t believe he’s really Augustus Smith.”
“Face change. Remember what we found in the hospital database? He looks completely different; the only thing he couldn’t change was his damned height.”
“He wasn’t the only one.”
“What?”
“His face change doesn’t explain the other person that Tribeca funded.”
“That worries me,” I said. I lowered my voice, despite our apparent solitude in this dungeon; for all I knew, Greene/Smith had people eavesdropping. “For now, we need to focus on getting out of here.”
“They took my gun and my SmartBoy.”
“It’s not like they would’ve been any help to us anyway. Not right now.” They’d taken mine too, plus a lockpicking kit I’d kept in my jacket pocket. And my screwdriver, the one I’d used to break the alarm system. Our weapons and technology sat on a little table just outside the door, just out of reach. Damn it. “We’re a little tied up if you hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ve got a plan, right?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t. And I didn’t tell him that if I’d been here alone, it would’ve been far easier to escape; whereas my welfare was expendable, Regan’s was not and that made things difficult when it came to plotting a breakout.
“Well?” he said. “What is it? What’s the plan?”
“I’m thinking.” They’d even taken my damned cigarettes. And I could really do with one, maybe three or four, right now. “I haven’t worked out all the details yet.” I hadn’t worked out any of the details.
I looked to my right and my left, studying the shape and design of the chairs we were strapped to. Cheap metal and plastic. Not much give in the metal, at least not unless one of us pushed our entire body weight against it. I bounced up and down on the seat, as much as the cable ties would allow, testing to see how much give the plastic had, but there wasn’t enough to snap them. Goddammit. The metal frame was going to be our best bet for escape, and I contemplated yet again that if I’d been alone, this escape would be easier. If I’d been alone, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this situation. But I didn’t blame Regan. He was young, and new to the game. Naïve.
I returned my focus to our current predicament. The shape of the chair, with the way the metal frame had been moulded, and the position of my wrists against the frame, all meant that if leaned into the frame and bent it just a little out of shape I could slide my hands and the ties up and over the armrests to freedom. But I was tied to Regan; I’d break his damned wrists if I tried that.
On the other hand, the frame was the only weakness on the chair; it would be a way to free ourselves from this predicament.
Damn it.
It would be painful for one of us. For me, mainly. Oh well, I was already hurting from my previous injuries; the painkillers I’d taken earlier that day had well and truly worn off, and more pain would make little difference.
“I know what we need to do,” I said. “And you’re not going to like it. It’ll hurt.”
He paused. “Do it,” said Regan. “We can’t stay here all night. Who knows what Greene will do with us in the morning. Tell me what I need to do.”
“The metal these chairs are made of? We can bend it if we put enough weight against it. All we need to do is apply pressure in the right places, enough to force the ties to break, and we should each be able to get at least one hand free.”
“These cable ties are pretty strong.”
“Even stronger if we try and pull ourselves apart without bending the metal,” I said. “But, at the very least, it’s going to cut into the skin of your wrists and if we’re not careful, break or crack bone.”
“Is there any other way?” I could almost feel him wince as he said it.
“We can always wait for them to untie us in the damned morning.”
“I’ll opt for the pain instead.”
I explained my plan to Regan and told him we needed to lean to his right, my left, and tilt the chair, unbalance it.
The chair tipped a little too far, and we almost ended up on the floor. There was a brief moment of weightlessness before I caught the swing, pushed my centre of gravity in the opposite direction and steadied us. The chair’s legs scraped and clattered against the stone floor.
“Careful,” I said as my chair wobbled; one of the legs, one to my right and the wrong one, had almost buckled from the force of becoming level. “We don’t want to topple ourselves.”
We tried again. We needed to bend the inner back legs and try and separate them from each other. We pushed, trying to focus the weight downwards, rather than outwards, and the plastic cable ties stretched and squeezed. It dug into my skin, just as I knew it would be digging into Regan’s, he cried out, and the plastic scoured and grazed, entrenched itself in my wrist, rubbed, burnt. We kept going, pressing down. Something wet, blood, ran down my hand and dripped onto the floor. Goddammit. Pressure and pain spread up my arm and I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore as my circulation was cut off. I gritted my teeth and Regan cried out again. Damn it. Someone must have heard him. Must have. We wouldn’t have long. We needed to make haste and escape before I was proved correct.
“Push,” I said through a clenched jaw. “Just a little more...”
We almost tilted a little too much; we were in danger of falling again, reaching the point of no return. Damn it. Too late.
Control slipped away, and for a moment it felt like my wrist was about to crack and bend just as much as the chair leg. The brief buoyancy returned as we reached the split second between falling and not falling, and then, we crashed to floor.
Something snapped, pressure released, and the pain of the plastic cable ties was replaced with the pain of my own bodyweight squashing the frame of the chair into my arm. I could feel my shoulder injury scream and I almost longed for the lesser pain of the crossbow bolt or that damned knife.
“That hurt,” said Regan.
“Still does,” I strained. The next dilemma was how to get my arm from underneath us and after that, to detach the other ties from both myself and Regan. “Is your wrist alright?”
“Yeah, just a bit of bruising and grazing, I think.”
“Can you get your hand free? Mine’s damned stuck.”
“I think so.” He shifted position behind me, rocking both chairs just slightly, and he let out a little yelp of pain as he pulled his right hand free from the frame. He sighed. “Got it.”
“Good,” I said. My left hand was still under the chair leg. Damn it. “Now you need to undo the other cable tie to free our other arms”
“My wrist has one hell of a graze around it.”
“Stop dawdling; we might’ve been heard when we fell.” And when Regan cried out. “Do you have anything thin and pointed? Like a pen?”
“They took our stuff, remember?” He scoffed. “And who has a pen?”
“I usually have one in my jacket pocket. Damn it. I think we’re stuck, and I can’t move this anymore, not with our combined body weights trapping my arm.”
“Oh. I think I have an idea,” he said. “Hang on, I think we can snap it if I brace myself against the chair with my free hand. Make a fist for me; I’ll do the same.”
“This is gonna hurt, right?”
“Yep. Try to keep your hand where it is.” The tie pulled against my wrist as Regan shifted, rotated, from the seat to standing. “I’m going to try and pull my hand out; it should snap if I can put enough force into it.”
“Do it.”
There was a short sharp pain, but with the extra force Regan was able to put in, it was over in a moment. The pain lingered.
He helped me to my feet.
“Your left wrist is really bad,” he said. He took hold of my hand; he’d noticed the blood. “Much worse than mine.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. Really.”
“I can make a bandage.”
Regan reached up to try and rip his sleeve, but I grabbed his hand and stopped him.
“There isn’t time,” I said. “We need to get out.” I pointed to the corner of the room. “The manhole.”
“What did you call me?” He said with a grin and a wink.
I rolled my eyes. “There’s a manhole; if we can get it open... we can get out and into the sewer systems. We won’t need to worry about any of the goddamned guards or Greene.”
“I...er...”
Metal against metal, interrupted, screeched and squealed as the locks were grated open.
Damn it.
“Stand back from the door,” a gruff voice called from beyond. “I know you’re out of your chairs.”
Our escape plan had been discovered and was on the brink of being scuppered. Goddammit. I grabbed the closest thing to hand, a chair, and flung it towards the door as it opened. The metal frame bounced off the guard and clattered away. It stunned the man, nothing more, but it was enough of a distraction for me to grab the other chair and charge at the guard, metal legs pronged to joust with his gun. I pushed him out and into an opposing wall. He cried out, hurt as one of the metal feet careened into his shoulder. I kicked as we collided, hitting his sensitive regions, and he crumbled. I swung around, dropped my weaponised furniture, and caught the man in a headlock. He struggled, though disorientated, and I squeezed my hold on him in just the right way with just the right amount of pressure to disable the guard and knock him unconscious.
He collapsed.
“Help me get him inside.” Thankfully, given, the time of night, this guard was the only one; the hall was empty and there was no light visible through the door at the top of the stairs that led to the main part of the warehouse. “I don’t know how long he’s gonna stay knocked out.”
Regan and I lifted and carried the man, Regan grabbing his legs and me holding his arms. I dragged in one of the chairs and, using some cable ties from the guard’s pockets, bound him. I ripped the man’s sleeve and used the fabric to gag him.
“That should hold him,” I said. Regan was heading toward the door. “Where are you going? There’s no way we’re leaving through the front door of this place.”
“I know, but I need my SmartBoy.”
“What?”
“I need it; it has the files on my mother and Tribeca,” said Regan. “Important files. They might even be the key to taking her down.”
“Don’t you have them backed up?”
He shook his head.
Goddammit, I thought to myself. “Quickly,” I said. “We haven’t exactly been quiet so far; someone else is bound to have heard, plus I’m sure this guy will be missed. And then we’re leaving through the manhole into the sewers, got it?”
“I’ll get yours too. And our guns,” he said. “They’re just outside.”
“Fine.”
I moved to the manhole in the corner, knelt, and slid my fingers into the handles. Damn it, this thing was heavy! I strained, pulled and heaved, and lifted the cover clean away from the opening. Darkness stared back, along with a strong and putrid odour. It was damned overwhelming. My eyes watered and I could almost taste it on my tongue. The stench wasn’t faeces, nor was it urine or ammonia; it was a rotting and putrid mix of everything, and all thanks to the chemicals used to treat and dissolve the waste of the millions of inhabitants that lived above its flowing rivers.
I gazed into the pit.
It was going to be a long way down the ladder. The sewers were almost at the very bottom of Space Station Delta, below the underway and the main maintenance tunnels, below the air filtration units and other technical machines vital to keeping the habitat of my home habitable. It was goddamned disgusting. Still, needs must, and if this was the only escape route, so be it.
“Regan?” I called out. “What’s taking you so long?” I clambered to my feet, careful not to rub against my injured wrist, and called out again. “Regan?”
He wasn’t outside, at least not directly outside our prison; he was at the top of the stairs, the ones that led out of the basement area and into the main part of the warehouse. He was looking through the window in the door.
“Regan!” I hissed as I reached the bottom step.
“Shit.” He turned and hurried back down the stairs. Lights illuminated the room beyond, and a silhouette appeared at the window. “They saw me.”
“Quickly, back inside!”
He handed over my gun, my SmartBoy and other belongs, as well as, thankfully, my cigarettes and lighter. Regan wore a guilty expression on his face. Goddammit. He was going to get us both killed.
The door swung open, banging against the wall, echoing, and the silhouette became another burly guard. A gun pointed in our direction.
“Stop!” The guard pointed a gun our way and before I knew it, Regan had fired his own weapon. He missed, hitting the wall, but it was too late. I don’t know whether it was a purposeful act, an accident or just plain instinct... the guard fired back.
No. No. No.
The bullet flew through the air; it hit and cut Regan’s neck and blood sprayed upwards and outwards. It splashed my face. He screamed but all I heard was a gurgled mess of sound. His body flopped and fell, and I caught him. Blood everywhere and I couldn’t stop it, pouring, bubbling from his neck and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it.
No. No. No.
I held his neck with my hand, putting pressure on it, and I dragged him into our prison room. I laid him on the ground, carefully. He was still breathing.
Damn it.
Damn it all to hell.
Why? Why did this have to happen?
No. No. No.
Goddammit!
I acted quickly; I threw the door closed, it locked as it shut, and grabbed the second chair to prop up against the door handle. The guard would soon be coming down the stairs and bursting through the door; I hoped, prayed, they’d forgotten their key. The chair would provide some measure of protection. But not enough; it wouldn’t hold for long.
“Regan...” I ripped the lining from my jacket and scrunched it into a makeshift bandage. I pressed it against his wound. “Regan...”
He nodded.
I felt relief flood my body.
But it was short lived; the reality of my senses fought back against my hope.
No. No. No.
The bullet had hit Regan’s jugular and he was bleeding out fast, faster that I could stop. His face had paled, breathing shallowed and he was already cold to the touch.
He placed his SmartBoy in my hand, evidence against his mother, and I felt a tear run down my cheek. No. No. It couldn’t end like this. No.
“I’m sorry,” I said. My hand was coated in his blood. “I couldn’t protect you.”
The door rattled and I could hear the guard shouting something; I ignored him.
Regan’s lips moved as he said... something, something too quiet to hear. There was so much blood. So much goddamned blood. Too much blood. Damn it. Damn it! He was dying and I couldn’t prevent it. His eyes were open, sad, apologetic. He was crying. He knew his fate. He knew. He knew what was happening to him. He knew he was about to die.
I leant in close, and Regan told me his last words.
“There’s no reason a fake cannot surpass the original.”