SEVENTEEN
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The map led Jed through a labyrinth of corridors, all similar in lighting and dampness. Without the map it would have been easy to get turned around or lost in the subterranean prison. Cells lined each wall until eventually the corridors became walls on either side, tunnels that wound tighter and tighter through the rock of the island. Finally the passageway led to another door, this one equipped with a thumb scanner much like the ones Jed had encountered leading to the Centralia bunker.
Jed paused at the door, placed one handgun in his waistband, wiped his palms on his pants. He had no idea what lay behind the door. It could be an ambush, a squad of armed men waiting to take him into custody. It could be more tunnels, more cells, more dim lights and damp floors. It could be Lilly, waiting for him with tear-filled eyes and outstretched arms. Or it could be a bullet in his brain.
Holding one handgun with his right hand, he placed his left thumb on the scanner and whispered a prayer.
A second later the door’s lock disengaged. Jed depressed the lever and pushed open the door. A concrete staircase lay behind it, leading deeper into the ground beneath the prison. At the top of the stairs, mounted on the wall, an exposed bulb cast light down several of the steps. But after that, the passage succumbed to the darkness and the steps were swallowed in lightlessness. If he continued to follow the path as directed by the map, he would have to descend into the abyss. His skin crawled; his heart thumped. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood erect.
Every fiber of his intuition told him not to go down there. He’d be helpless in the dark. Sure, he’d done night missions before: raids, stealth attacks, even rescues; but he’d always had night vision to aid him. Walking blindly into unknown territory with unknown threats lurking was not only careless, it was madness.
Jed’s first inclination was to abandon the mission. He’d tell Murphy to go off himself and find another way. There was always another way. But this time was different, wasn’t it? This was not a rescue mission to retrieve a military hostage or a raid on a high-value target. This was his daughter. Eight years old. He couldn’t take any risks; he couldn’t go rogue and improvise. He needed to at least appear compliant. For her sake.
Jed descended the steps slowly, carefully, until the light waned and darkness overcame it; he then took them one step at a time, his back against the concrete wall, weapon head-high, clutched with both hands. As darkness enveloped him, his other senses sharpened. The faint hum of electricity vibrated along the concrete. Far off down the corridor a pipe knocked, rattled, then quieted. And somewhere near, faint but present, he could hear the easy rhythm of breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Jed froze and remained motionless while he listened, straining his ears to pick up the sound of breath. It was difficult to tell how near it was or from what direction it came. The concrete walls, floor, and ceiling toyed with the sound waves, tossing them around like a piece of driftwood in rough water. The source of the breathing seemed to be all around him, right next to his ear while at the same time some distance away.
Inching his way down the steps, Jed eventually came to the bottom. He paused to listen. The dripping continued as did the steady breathing. He began to think maybe it wasn’t breathing at all. Maybe it was merely the pulsations of the ventilation system or heat ducts working to overcome the damp coolness of the underground chambers.
Until the soft patter of footsteps and then the light scuff of soles on concrete disrupted the background noise. Again, Jed went still; his index finger rested lightly on the trigger of the gun. The footsteps did not seem to grow closer, but rather to move along the length of an unseen corridor parallel to where Jed stood. He’d heard stories of the ghosts that resided in the Alcatraz prison and even more so in the dungeons beneath the prison. How many more called this dungeon below the basement their home?
Jed scolded himself for allowing such stories to rattle him. Ghosts were not real. The spirits of infamous prisoners did not roam the caverns below the cell house. Either there was some other explanation for the footsteps, or the conglomeration of sounds bouncing around the hollow space was playing tricks on his mind.
Moving once again, Jed sidestepped along the wall, feeling with his feet and back as he went. Before him darkness loomed so thick he could not see the handgun in front of his face. He came to a corner and stopped, remembering that another tunnel intersected with the one he was currently navigating. He’d seen this on the map. He was to keep straight, which meant crossing the intersection, exposing himself on all sides.
After taking a deep breath, Jed hurried across the intersection. Quickly he felt for the wall on the other side, then pressed himself against it. Standing still again, he heard another sound. This one slithered through the black tunnels like a menacing serpent, tickling his ears but in no way playfully. It was a familiar sound, human in source . . . the soft susurration of a whisper.
Jed held his breath and listened. The words took form as they traveled around him like a mist: “Vengeance is mine.” The words were drawn and spoken in an unearthly hiss.
Jed shut his eyes tight. It was not a ghost. There had to be another explanation.
“Vengeance is mine. Kill.”
Jed slid his leading foot forward with each step, feeling for any changes or obstacles in the floor. The unseen footsteps followed him, keeping pace, and occasionally the voice would hiss, “Vengeance is mine. Kill the devil.”
Wading through the darkness, being trailed by disembodied footsteps, Jed could not stop his mind from visiting a foreign land . . .
Though the air is cool, the sand radiates the stored heat from the day. The sky is as black as octopus ink and dense. He can almost feel the darkness as it creeps in and presses against him from every side. The darkness in this place is not just physical; there’s a moral gloom, a spiritual void. There is no happiness here. Not now, and Jed wonders if there ever was.
“We’re on, Jedi.” His spotter sidles up beside him, on his belly, and adjusts the spotter scope.
Jed peers through his scope at a world illuminated in fluorescent green. He scans the village below.
“Where?”
“On your one. Can’t miss him. Big guy. Looks like he’s had a few dozen too many pitas. All those carbs’ll do that to you, man.”
There, the target. A hundred and fifty meters out. Below him nearly thirty meters the team approaches the village, cloaked in darkness, and moving as silently as any cat on the prowl. It’s his job to provide protection. He’ll take out the target first, cut off the head of the serpent; then the team can execute their maneuvers. Big Brother will be watching and protecting.
As the team nears the outer border of the village, Jed brings the target into view again and plants the crosshair on his chest.
One shot. One kill.