Chapter 12

Zack rubs his hand across the filthy window. Dirt and dust smear across his skin, but he still can’t see through. “Should’ve brought glass cleaner,” he mutters.

“I’m getting seriously creeped out by this building,” says Nola. “Which probably means it’s the right place.”

“Let’s get this over with,” says Lamar. “How do we get in?”

They walk over to the door. “Clearly Talbot’s made some upgrades since the fifties.”

Nola leans down and peers at the scanner. “Do you think this is a fingerprint reader, or . . . ?”

Her earring glints in the sunlight. Too brightly.

“Take off one of your earrings,” Zack says.

“Excuse me?”

“The symbol,” Zack tries to explain. “I think . . . just try holding your earring under the scanner.”

She tries it. The scanner beeps, and the door swings open a few inches.

“Whoa,” says Lamar. “You think that would work with anything? My ring? The tattoos?”

“If so, Talbot doesn’t have a very secure lair,” Nola observes.

“I’m not interested in his security methods. We need to find Ben.” Zack pushes the door all the way open.

He steps into a dark room draped in dust. It opens out into a hallway. The walls and floors are cracked and rotting. But what matters most is the door at the end of the hall. That’s where the light is coming from. A narrow outline of it, sneaking past the frame.

This time Lamar holds his ring under the door scanner. It works. They step into the brightly lit room beyond.

It’s a stairway. With stairs that only lead down.

“I hope this thing doesn’t go down six thousand feet,” says Lamar.

In fact, it only goes down one level. Now they’re in an enormous room that looks like a medical lab. In the middle is a long table filled with test-tube holders, different kinds of microscopes, containers with very long label stickers. The walls are lined with cabinets and shelving. More containers, more equipment.

Against the back wall are the chairs. At least twenty of them in a tight row. Similar to dentists’ chairs, but with more restraining devices attached. Three of the chairs are occupied.

A tan guy in his twenties is strapped into the first chair. Next to him is a slim, white-haired woman. And next to her is Ben.

The prisoners’ eyes widen in surprise, but the straps over their mouths keep them silent.

Zack runs across the room so fast that he almost wipes out on the slippery tile floor. “Ben! I’m here, I’ve got you—”

“Just a minute, Mr. Silver.”

Zack freezes. He knows that voice. But it doesn’t belong here . . . unless . . .

He turns.

Standing at the far end of the row of chairs is Felix Halwin.