ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:36
“You can’t be serious,” Julia said. “I’ve come all this way, and now—”
“The last time we tried to find Funt, we were both nearly killed by an improvised bomb,” Chapel pointed out. “There’s no telling what’s down there, waiting for me.”
“And you think you’re safer on your own?” Julia asked. Her eyes were bright with anger. “I’m not some kid you’re being paid to babysit, Chapel.”
“No. You’re a civilian who doesn’t need to know all the facts of this case.”
Even as the words came out of his mouth he knew he’d made a bad mistake with her. He could see in her eyes that he’d picked exactly the wrong thing to say.
Her mouth compressed in a hard line, and she folded her arms across her chest. “And that’s all that I am. Right?”
He racked his brain for some way to explain what he’d meant better, to smooth things over. But there was no time for that. “I have to go, now. Lives are at stake,” he said, which even to his own ears just sounded bad. “Listen, I need you to stay up here and watch for cops. If they come down after me, it’ll spook Funt and he’ll run away.”
She shook her head and looked away from him.
At least she wasn’t arguing the point.
He ducked through the short doors of the hatch and headed down the stairs.
Angel’s voice sounded in his ear. “That’s not the fastest way to a woman’s heart, sugar,” she said.
Chapel looked up and saw Julia’s legs framed by the open hatch above him. He whispered his reply so she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m still a professional, Angel. I have questions for Funt. He has information I need. Information a civilian shouldn’t hear.”
“I’m torn here,” Angel said. “The part of me that works for Hollingshead thinks that’s absolutely right, and that you’re acting exactly as you should.”
“And the other part?” Chapel asked.
“The part of me that’s a woman thinks you’re being a jerk.”
“I’ll settle for being half right,” Chapel told her.
The stairs before him led down into a dark cavernous space filled with looming shapes. A storage area full of crates. He could see very little while his eyes were adjusting, but eventually he made out a line of pale light ahead in the darkness. It was coming from underneath a door. He reached for the knob and found it wasn’t locked. Beyond lay a corridor painted glaring white, lit by fluorescent bulbs that buzzed angrily as if annoyed at his intrusion.
“—having trouble—” Angel said in his ear. “—losing your telemetry and—”
“Angel?” Chapel asked. “Angel, you’re breaking up.”
“—signal. You’re pretty far beneath the—”
“Angel?” Chapel called. “Angel, repeat. Please come in.”
A burst of static sounded in his ear, but it cut in and out.
Apparently there were some places even Angel couldn’t tread. The vast amount of concrete and steel over Chapel’s head must be blocking her satellite signal. Damn. He hated proceeding without her watching over his shoulder.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:47
Chapel stepped into the white hallway. Three doors, also painted white, led off the corridor in a number of directions. One of them was a heavy reinforced steel door with a sliding plate set into its face. Its latch was protected by a massive combination lock. Chapel lifted the lock and found it had rusted shut — it might have been hanging there for twenty years, for all he knew. The sliding panel looked like it was painted shut.
He could hear music. Faint music that sounded tinny like it was coming from a transistor radio. He banged on the door for a while, but there was no response. He tried the second door, but that was locked, too.
He headed down the corridor to the final door. The music seemed louder there. He rested his ear against the door and through it he could almost make out what song was playing. The sound had to be coming from behind that door.
His instinct was to draw his weapon. It was possible the chimera had beaten him here.
But he’d seen no sign of a struggle. “Mr. Funt!” he shouted. “Turn off your music and listen to me! I’m here to help!”
There was, of course, no reply.
Chapel grunted in frustration and grabbed the knob of the door before him. It turned easily and the door opened on well-oiled hinges.
Beyond lay a linen closet with a number of shelves. On one shelf sat the radio, playing some light jazz.
On another shelf sat a squarish box made of green metal, slightly convex, propped up on a pair of scissor-shaped legs. In raised lettering on the front of the box was the legend FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Chapel knew instantly that it was a claymore antipersonnel mine.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:51
Julia considered just leaving. After what Chapel had said to her, she was righteously angry — after everything she’d been through, for him to talk to her like she was an unruly child… it was sorely tempting to just walk away, to get a cab to the airport and go… somewhere else.
She was smart enough to know that would be a terrible idea, though. Laughing Boy was still out there somewhere, looking for her. He would eventually find her. And if she didn’t have Chapel around to protect her when that happened, she would die.
But damn Chapel! She’d thought, after what had happened that morning, that maybe there was something between them beyond just his business. She’d begun to think… well, she had no idea what she’d begun to think. But that was over now. Right out of the question. He’d gotten what he wanted. He was the big strong knight in shining armor and she had fallen straight into his arms — arm — like she’d been following some cheesy Hollywood script, and she hated herself for that a little. Now that he’d fucked her he had lost all interest in her as a human being, clearly. Just like every other man she’d ever met before. If he thought she was going to share his bed again tonight, he was sorely mistaken. She was her own woman and she could make her own choices.
She couldn’t just walk away from him, obviously. She was stuck with him. But while he was off gallivanting around, at least, she considered herself on her own recognizance.
There were shops around her, places she could go find some fresh clothes. Places to get something to eat. She was hungry.
And maybe if she left, the homeless guy would leave her alone.
“Do you like jazz?” he asked her, for the third time. He had a hopeful twinkle in his eye. Still.
“Not particularly,” she said.
Chapel had been down there for what felt like fifteen minutes. What was taking him so long? He just had to grab Funt and come back up. That shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. She wondered if maybe he’d stumbled on some booby trap down there and gotten himself blown up.
It would serve him right, she thought. Leaving her here with this wino so she could watch for the police.
From what she could tell, Underground Atlanta wasn’t exactly high on the list of places cops went to hang out. It was clogged with homeless people and drug dealers.
“You’re not a tourist, I can tell,” the drunk said, as if he’d just proved he was Sherlock freaking Holmes. “That guy you’re with, he’s some kind of — what? Urban explorer? Thrill-seeking spelunker?”
“He’s a building inspector,” Julia said, thinking on her feet. “I’m his assistant. We had reports that radon gas was leaking from this place, so he went down to check out just how deadly it is. Just standing here is probably giving you cancer.”