“Can’t we take some stairs?” Blade asked.
“Climb ten floors?” Captain Wargo replied. He snickered. “You can, if you want to. But I’m not about to climb ten flights when there’s an elevator handy.”
Blade hesitated, then entered the elevator.
Hickok strolled in, studying the overhead light, the bank of lit buttons on the right side, and the small grill in the center of the floor.
Captain Wargo smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Believe me, you’ll never know this ride took place.” His right hand stabbed one of the buttons.
The elevator door started to close. And that’s when it happened.
Captain Wargo dived, his arms outstretched. His hurtling form narrowly missed the closing door.
Blade leveled the Commando, but the gunman was faster. The Henry boomed, but the closing door intervened, the slug hitting the edge of the door and careening outside.
The elevator door slammed shut.
“Blast!” Hickok fumed. “We’re trapped!”
Blade pounded on the right wall, then the door. “They’re too thick to break through,” he commented methodically.
Hickok stared straight up. “What about the light?”
Blade inspected the overhead light. It was rectangular, about two feet in width. A man might be able to squeeze—
There was a loud thump from underneath the elevator.
“What the blazes was that?” Hickok asked.
“I don’t know,” Blade said.
Another distinct thump sounded.
“I don’t like this, pard,” Hickok remarked.
“We walked right into this one,” Blade admitted, frowning. “I think they’re after the SEAL, but they’ll never get it. I left the keys inside with Geronimo.”
“I hope you’re right,” Hickok stated, bending over to peer at the buttons. “Should I push one of these?”
“Go for it.”
Hickok punched the button marked OPEN.
Nothing happened. “Uh-oh,” the gunman said.
Blade, scrutinizing the overhead light, felt a slight burning sensation in his nostrils.
“A bullet would ricochet off these walls,” Hickok was saying. “Say, do you smell somethin’?”
Blade glanced down.
Curling, wispy white tendrils were emanating from the grill in the elevator floor. They rose toward the ceiling, spreading, congealing into a cloudy mass.
Damn! Blade crouched and laid his hands over the small grill, striving to cover the slits with his fingers and stifle the smoke. He was only partially successful. The smoke continued to seep out, filling the elevator.
“What a lousy way to go!” Hickok said, and coughed. His eyes were watering, his nose tingling, and his lungs gasping for fresh air.
Blade was feeling dizzy. He weaved unsteadily and put his left hand over his mouth and nose.
“Do… you… think it’s… poisonous?” Hickok asked, doubling over and collapsing on his knees.
“Don’t… know,” Blade croaked, his throat parched and raspy.
The elevator was a muggy, misty white haze.
Blade’s legs buckled and he fell to the floor. He wished he could apologize to Hickok. He’d stupidly led the gunman into a trap any amateur would have avoided. There was only one consolation. The bastards would never get the SEAL. Geronimo was locked inside safe and sound.
It served the bastards right!
Blade struggled to rise, but his limbs refused to obey, and he pitched onto his face with a protracted sigh.
Chapter Eight
Lieutenant Alicia Farrow was in a dire quandary.
What the hell was she supposed to do?
Farrow ran her right hand through her crewcut black hair, her dark eyes troubled.
What was she going to do?
Farrow was seated on the bank of the inner moat, 50 yards north of the drawbridge, her back leaning against the trunk of a tall maple tree. She stared at the slowly meandering water, dejected.
Her ass was grass!
She had deliberately violated her orders! The Minister would boil her in oil when he found out! Violating an order was an offense in the first degree, punishable by death.
Her death.
Farrow closed her eyes, deep in reflection. According to her instructions, she should have given the signal yesterday. Somewhere out there, lurking in the trees, waiting for her to activate her beeper, was the four-member demolition crew. What were their names? Sergeant Darden was one. And Private Rundle was another. There was a loudmouth named Johnson, and one other whose name eluded her. They would be wondering why she didn’t signal. How long before they sent someone to check on her?
How long before they discovered she was derelict in her duty?
But how could she do it?
How could she give the signal, knowing the compound would be demolished by a series of devastating explosions?
How could she give the signal, knowing what it would mean to her newfound friends?
Dammit!
Why did she have to go and become attached to these people? She’d never acted this way before! She was allowing raw emotionalism to pervert her higher purpose.
But she couldn’t help herself.
There was something intangible about the Family, some elusive quality supremely attractive in its simplicity. Maybe it was the way they all cared for one another. Really cared. Not the fake bullshit so common among the Technics, but authentic affection. She’d seen it. She’d experienced it. A peculiar sensation, new to her, alien in its profound impact on her mind and heart.
Was it—she balked at mentally framing the word—was it love? Real love? Not the artificial crap she’d known all her life. But sincere, unaffected, pure love?
Whatever it was, it scared the daylights out of her!
She felt it most when in Yama’s presence. Incredibly, she couldn’t get enough of him. She concocted excuses to be near him. Asked him questions to draw out their conversations, when she already knew the answers. She wanted to be near him every second of every day.
What the hell had happened to her?
F arrow opened her eyes and gazed at the moat. She had a decision to make, and she couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Either she sent the signal, or she told Yama about the demolition team.
One or the other.
But which?
“Mind some company?” asked a deep voice.
Farrow glanced up, and there he was, the morning sun to his rear, adding a preternatural glow to the outline of his muscular physique, his dark blue garment bulging with power, his silver hair and mustache neatly combed, freshly washed.
Farrow couldn’t force her mouth to function. She swallowed, nodding.
Yama sat down next to her, laying his Wilkinson on the grass. “I was searching all over for you. Is everything all right?”
Farrow averted her eyes. “Fine,” she responded huskily.
“Are you sure?” Yama insisted.
“I’m okay,” Farrow asserted. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a feeling I have,” Yama said. He scrutinized her features for a moment. “Are you homesick?”
“What?” Farrow replied in surprise.
“Are you homesick? Do you miss your fellow Technics? Is that why you’re upset?” Yama inquired.
“I’m not upset,” Farrow rejoined stiffly.
“Whatever you say,” Yama said.
Farrow nervously bit her lower lip, then glanced at him. “I don’t miss them,” she confided. “Truth to tell, I don’t even want to go back.”
“Then don’t.”
Farrow laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah! Just like that!”
“Why not?” Yama asked.
“They might not like it,” Farrow said.
“So what? It’s your life. You can do whatever you want,” Yama declared.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Farrow stated. She decided to change the subject. “I’d like to hear some more about you.”