Chapter 35

<<Is everyone accounted for #Shadownet?>> JanusFlyTrap tweets.

I’m on Twitter, standing in the mansion’s foyer. I can’t go back to Peter if it’ll endanger my friends. I won’t make decisions for them. They put their trust in me.

One by one, they all check in with the exception of Gumps. Peter.

Karl says he’s A ZaZa’s newest pizza delivery boy, but he’s ten minutes out.

My friends are okay.

Police would be handy, I tweet. And don’t you dare deliver that pizza, Karl.

Pretty sure it’s the U.S. Rangers who say, “Leave no man behind.” Well, it’s my new creed too. I’m going back.

I’m coming out with @Pumpkineatr. I don’t stick around to learn more and pocket the phone.

Unfortunately, I know of only one way to convince Peter to escape. I stride back through the hall and kitchen into the great room. A dozen members are in here, all abuzz about the news media and whether their faces were caught by the cameras or not. I spy the bolt cutters next to the chain. Peter needs them, but there’s no way I can snatch the tool without raising suspicions. Not without a distraction.

When Hector spots me, his eyes widen and then his shoulders slouch. He’d wanted me gone. My course is set. Back in the kitchen, I strike a match and light the sparkler-bomb. Then I throw it in the pantry. Nonchalant, I wander back into the main room and inspect the Iron Man suit.

“Fire!” someone yells a minute later. And as everyone rushes to investigate, I take up the bolt cutters, fold them under my heavy parka, and shut myself behind the door leading to the basement. I hear grunts from below. I shake my head at the thought of Peter still working away at the lock. I descend the steps and am about to say something when the grunts overlap. Peter’s not alone.

I peek around the corner.

This is a rematch. Fenwick has his arms out in a wrestler’s stance. Peter has his hands clenched in fists, up like a boxer. But he moves like he’s already gone ten rounds in the ring and Fenwick dances left and right. What can I do? If I hit Fenwick with the bolt cutters, I might distract him, but I’m not strong enough to knock him out.

Peter takes an uppercut to the ribs and I wince, clutching my own gut. As he stumbles backward, Fenwick swaggers toward him.

I back slowly up the stairs, thinking hard. By the time I reach the top, I have a plan. I switch on my phone’s voice recorder. Hit record. Wait a few seconds, and then speak into it, calling softly and then louder. I stop it. Then I shut off the lights.

The darkness is near complete. Only a thin, yellow line shines beneath the door to the hallway. The exit. My throat constricts. I don’t want to go back down.

There’s a cry from below, but then people are still shouting above too. Quick as I can, I climb down the stairs and shuffle along the side wall into the melee. I can feel the wind of flailing punches. I hear Peter’s wheezing. I set the phone in Peter’s former jail cell, and, shielding the glow, I hit play, relock the screen, and scramble to position myself next to the door.

“Peter, Peter—” comes my voice from inside. “Peter!”

The wheezing quiets and then there’s a rush of movement and a chuckle.

“No, Jan—” Peter says.

I feel the first body rush past. The steps are light and strong: Fenwick. I have to shove the second body out of the way as I slam the door and throw the bolt home.

“Peter?” I ask the total darkness.

Someone crashes against the door of the prison, and I cry out.

“Janus?” Peter says beside me, his breath rattling.

My hug is more of a tackle.

“Wait here,” I say as I feel my way up the stairs and throw the switch, turning the lights back on.

By the time I return, he’s discovered the bolt cutter and cut the lock. Shoulders hunched, he inspects the contents of the room. If I expected an arsenal, I am disappointed. There are guns, but no cases of C-4 explosive.

“What have we got, what have got …” Peter says.

Fenwick is screaming at the top of his lungs now and it’s difficult to think. Every once in a while he stops screaming and he smashes against the door again. It holds. He goes quiet and for some reason I see that as even more threatening.

Peter inspects a timer—I’ve watched enough CSI to know what it is—but there are no explosives to time. There are handguns and hunting guns. Nothing as fancy as say a machine gun or a Bazooka, but certainly stuff that can do damage. Some guns are disassembled, there’s another shelf with ammo and a canister that looks to be full of gasoline. I pick out a Glock because I’ve held one before.

Peter snatches it back.

“No guns,” he says. “Most battles are won with superior firepower. If the two of us start a gunfight against thirty-odd enemy, we will lose.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“Call the—” he begins, but his eyes flick toward Fenwick’s prison. My phone is in with him. I can hear him tapping in numbers, probably trying to figure out my pin. I wish I’d set a stronger pin than 4–3–2–1. With any luck the cavalry is on its way.

“Okay,” he says, sloshing the gasoline can. “This will take care of the server room but we need a way to flood the interior.”

I remember the cleaning fluid pooling at our feet rather than flowing under the door. I dart away, tear a square of cardboard from the box of cleaning supplies, and stuff it in beneath the door to the NOC. Sometimes the best hacks are the simplest. Peter says nothing. The gasoline cap spins off and he slowly pours it on the inside of the cardboard. Sulphur reek curls my nose hair. Lots still spills outside but the majority of the glugs of gas are slipping under the door and into the server room. It’s the best we can do and seems to satisfy Peter.

“Let’s see about that fuse,” he says.

I feel better about setting a fire rather than a big blast of C-4. It means Fenwick will survive and then Fenwick can go to jail. And maybe one day I’ll get my phone back! Which I file under #leastofmyworries. I shake out a trail of sparkler dust from the door to the exit stairwell.

“You ready?” I ask, pulling out the matches.

He nods.

“It’s your legacy,” I say, holding the matches to him. Not to mention that my hands are soaked in gasoline.

Even with the swelling, he winks and takes the box. “It’s on my head, you mean.”

Despite the battering to his face, his eyes and teeth gleam. This is a man in his element.

He strikes the match and we both stand and watch mesmerized as the sparkler powder ignites and starts flaring its way toward the gas puddle.

“We’d better go,” I say and that jolts him back alert and wipes the smile off his face. I grab his hand and start hauling him up the stairs. They’ve done something to his leg, though, and he’s having trouble bending one knee to climb each step. The burning of the sparkler fizzles in my ears. The slower we go, the quicker my heart thuds.

“Faster,” I say.

We need to be out of the basement when the gas ignites.

“Go on,” he tells me, shaking his hand free from mine. His foot swings awkwardly to the next step.

“No way,” I say. “My mom grounded me, and I need you to explain all of this to her. Now, hurry!”

He bears down and starts swinging his foot around, leaning heavily on the handrail. It’s faster but—

WHUMP!

It’s a low sound, like the warning bark of a huge dog. Light flashes from below and heat billows over us. We’re far enough away that I’m not afraid of burning. Then the alarm rings out.

And that’s what I was afraid of.