A bolt of pain shot through her waist and she clutched it a little tighter. For some reason, the pain made her think of Tony, of how much she missed him. What she wouldn’t give to have him by her side again.
“Amanda?” Codd’s voice sounded crisp and cold like an ice storm.
What now? Morgan thought, barely containing her irritation. She’d spent the last few hours in Research, fulfilling resource requests on behalf of Codd and Issova. Some water here. Another laptop there. It was necessary, but mundane work.
“Yes?” she called out.
“We’re in,” Codd replied.
Morgan snapped to attention. “You mean…?”
“Yes. The hatch is ready to open.”
Morgan donned the lab coat. Still clutching her waist, she squeezed between the file cabinets and hiked to the door. She shouted out instructions and a group of armed scientists gathered around her.
As she led the group into Research, thoughts of Zach Caplan, strangely enough, filtered into her brain. To make his unauthorized trip, Tony had stolen car keys from Caplan’s unlocked desk drawer. Apparently plagued with guilt, Caplan had left Hatcher a few days later without speaking so much as a word to her. She understood his reaction. Still, his absence had only added to her pain. Losing her brother was hard enough. But her boyfriend, her soul mate? Well, that was enough to rip her heart asunder.
Morgan caught sight of the hatch. It looked the same as always. A three-foot square section of metal plating with hinges on one side and a built-in computer screen. Codd and Issova, still sitting at the same table, continued to work on their laptops.
“Well?” Morgan said impatiently. “What are you waiting for?”
Codd typed a command into her keyboard. Metal shifted, grinding quietly against metal. Air rushed like a wind tunnel.
With a loud click, the hatch yawned open. As always, air blasted out of the shaft, the result of multiple blowers that helped keep airborne particles from entering the Lab.
Morgan peeked into the shaft, seeing the familiar metal ladder descending into relative darkness. “Do yourselves a favor.” She flashed a wary look at the small group of armed scientists as she lowered herself into the shaft. “Be ready for anything.”
Chapter 13
Caplan pressed the phone to his ear as it continued to ring. This ain’t rocket science, James, he thought in frustration. The phone rings, you pick it up.
The phone rang again. And again. Before it could ring yet again, he pushed an on-screen button, ending the call. Gritting his teeth, he stared at his yellow, heavily flaked ceiling.
The phone vibrated in his right hand. Glancing down, he saw the words, Unknown Caller, blinking on the screen. His left forefinger itched to accept the call. But he hesitated. This ain’t rocket science, Zach, he scolded himself. The phone rings, you pick it up.
But he didn’t pick it up. And eventually, the call went to voicemail.
Slowly, he sank into his lumpy sofa. Folded his tough, weathered hands in his lap and stared at them so hard his eyes started to hurt. He hated this place¸ hated this city. So, why was he suddenly reluctant to leave it behind?
Steeling his brain, he put all thoughts of Tony Morgan out of his head and focused on just one thing.
Hatcher Station.
He knew Hatcher like the tiny bumps, folds, and veins in his hands. He recalled the electric fences, the makeshift garage, and the building’s massive sprawl. The Heptagon-shaped interior along with its seven wings — the Galley, the Barracks, Operations, Research, the Warehouse, the Eye, and the entranceway — also came to mind.
But what didn’t come to mind were weaknesses. Besides a couple of rooftop vents, Hatcher contained no hidden entrances or secret doorways. And the building was rock solid, having been built to withstand earthquakes, blizzards, forest fires, and cyclonic nor’easters. Just how much help could he realistically offer to the situation?
Sighing, Caplan leaned against the cushions. They weren’t exactly comfortable, but they still felt nice against his tired body.
On the opposite end of the couch, he saw his laptop. Low on processing power and over a decade old, it was a far cry from the expensive gadgets he saw everyday on the city streets. But it was more than enough to maintain his simplistic Zach Caplan Survival School website.
He thought about the morning’s session and how he’d cancelled it. How he’d left all those potential students in the lurch. He needed to send them an apology as well as a veiled plea to give him another chance. Half-heartedly, he reached for the device.
Brrrinnnng!
Caplan’s hand froze a few inches from the laptop. His eyes flitted to his phone. But it didn’t tremble, didn’t light up.
Brrrinnnng!
It wasn’t a phone call, so what was…?
Brrrinnnng!
Ahh, it was the buzzer. Which meant someone was at his door. Caplan couldn’t remember the last time he had a visitor at this time of day. It had to be Corbotch.
He started to stand up, but the laptop caught his gaze. For a moment, his eyes flicked back and forth between the device and the front door. A series of stark choices, all intertwined, bombarded his brain. Teach survival skills or use them? This apartment or Hatcher Station? Manhattan or the Vallerio? Civilization or nature?
Brrrinnnng!
Caplan pushed himself off the lumpy cushions. He rose to his feet and with one last fleeting look at his laptop, strode across the room. He checked the peephole, unlocked the bolt, and opened the door.
James Corbotch — looking cross and tired — stood alone in the shabby hallway, surrounded by peeling paint and moldy picture frames. “Well?” he said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Caplan stepped out of the way and Corbotch strode into the apartment. His gray sport coat shimmered gently under the harsh halogen lights. Sweat stains covered the front of his tailored white shirt. “I got your call.”
Caplan frowned. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Well, uh,… look, I’m still trying to—”
“The situation has changed.”
Caplan recognized an edge to the man’s voice. His fingertips began to tremble from nervous energy. He drummed them against his sides, but the energy refused to dissipate. “Yeah?”
“My people just received another garbled transmission from Hatcher Station. Most of it is gibberish, but we were able to decipher enough of it to determine that the terrorists breached the Lab.”
“So, that’s it.” Caplan felt strangely numb. “They’ve got control over the entire building.”
“Not necessarily. The Lab’s guards are well trained and have plenty of provisions. At the very least, they should be able to put up a spirited defense. But that won’t matter if we don’t get to Hatcher in time.”
“In time for what?”
“How much do you know about the Lab?”
“Almost nothing,” Caplan admitted. “Research was strictly off-limits during my tenure.”
“There’s a computer-controlled hatch at the far end of Research. It opens to a vertical shaft. Gas valves line all sides of the shaft. They’re designed to blow air upward. It’s one of several mechanisms used to keep airborne particles out of the Lab.” Corbotch’s mouth crinkled at the edges. “The communications aren’t working right, but my people are still able to remotely monitor the Lab and its systems. So, we know that when the terrorists hacked into the security program, they accidentally triggered a switch in gases. Instead of oxygen, a particularly nasty biological agent known as HA-78 filtered out into the shaft.”