Darkness and cold.
The darkness Steve could partially understand. He had a hood over his head. A black hood like they gave to Saddam before he was hanged. Like they used to do all the time when hanging was the punishment meted out in these good old United States.
The cold was the cold of a stone basement. A prison cell maybe. Or dungeon. They had marched him down here and he heard a door lock. Hands cuffed behind him.
So much for heroic stands. So much for his influence over his long-lost brother. So much for his life finally amounting to something more than the day-to-day quest for a buck or a fix.
He tried to feel his way around the enclosure, kicking out with his foot. He thought all sorts of things might be waiting for him. Bear traps. Rats. All the finer things of life set up here by Eldon LaSalle. And now Johnny.
Brother love was not all it was cracked up to be.
He heard some crackling. Like major electric wires. Popping sounds.
No. Not electricity.
Gunfire. Distant but clear.
We’re all dead now, he thought.
He tried to gauge the time as the shooting continued. Ten minutes or thirty? More? He couldn’t tell.
Then the sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Back in silence, he wondered if this was just some calm before more storm. Or something worse. What if the feds lobbed in gas or something? Or bulldozed the place with tanks?
If that happened, what could he do with his head bagged and hands shackled?
More time passed. Not good. He was starting to feel the internal pressure of nature’s call. A final indignity before death?
Then something at the door. Someone trying to get in?
“Anybody in there?” a voice shouted. “This is ATF. Agent Larson. Anybody inside?”
Steve moved toward the sound, shouting through his hood. “Yeah! One guy!”
“Can you open the door?”
“No.”
Pause. “Stand back.”
Steve heard a grinding of some kind. Someone cutting through steel. Then a chinking sound, like chains falling off. And a burning smell wafting in.
He heard the door open.
“It’s all right,” the voice said, and there followed the sound of footsteps, maybe three sets.
Then his hood was removed.
It was dark in the room, with faint light coming through the open door. Three silhouettes stood in front of him, guys with helmets.
“Conroy?” the man said.
“That’s me,” Steve said.
“Good to see you.”
“What’s happened?”
“The place is secure.
“The place is secure. Let’s get you out. And get those cuffs off.”