“Not really. I guess it’s time we arm ourselves and prepare to face our attackers. There are not a lot of places here to hide.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Sandi said.
“Go for it,” Sam said.
Sandi shined her flashlight upward. “What about up there?”
Sam swallowed. “You’re kidding. That wood looks like it’s been down here for a hundred or more years. Do you think it will still take our weight?”
Jesse shrugged as though it didn’t really warrant asking. “Might do. Might not.”
Sam looked around, thinking if there might have been another option. Then he spotted the flashlight coming from the way they had come.
“Okay, up it is.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sam climbed the old wooden rungs quickly.
Water rushed over his back and his eyes stung, but he made progress. Sandi, as the lightest person, directly behind, with Jesse insisting on climbing last — arguing that he’d gotten everyone into this mess and as a consequence he should be the last to get out.
Sam pressed on, against the downpour.
About seventy feet up, Sam started to feel confident. The rungs were old, but they were taking his weight.
They were nearing the top.
Sam climbed over the last rung and expelled a deep breath. They had made it! It would take a crazy person to try and follow them now.
Over the rumble of the roaring water, he heard the faint sound of several shots being fired, presumably until their attacker’s magazine emptied. The sound was immediately followed by a loud cry.
It was a deep guttural, almost visceral, curse.
Sam edged to the side of the wooden platform and looked down.
Jesse met his eye. “Those bastards hit me!”
“Can you move?”
“Yeah. It just hurts like hell.”
Sam waited until Jesse reached his arm and helped pull him up onto the platform.
In a whisper, he said, “Where are you hit?”
“In my butt!”
Sam and Sandi leaned in on either side of him, so that Jesse could use them both for support. Sam had offered to carry him, but Jesse had been insistent it would slow them down too much — although no one believed anyone would willingly climb those ladders if they didn’t have to do so.
The ventilation shaft didn’t come out on the surface, but instead came out on another horizontal tunnel.
“Great!” Sam said, “I feel like we’re trapped in an underground maze.”
Sandi said, “More like a minotaur’s labyrinth.”
In ancient Greek mythology, The Minotaur dwelt at the center of the Labyrinth, which was an elaborate maze-like construction designed by the architect Daedalus and his son Icarus, on the command of King Minos of Crete.
Sam’s lips curled into a wry grin. “Trust an anthropologist to make a reference to ancient Greek mythology.”
Sandi turned to Jesse. “I don’t suppose you know where we are?”
“Actually, I think I know exactly where we are. This one comes out at an abandoned mine in an old ghost town named, St. Elmo’s.”
“Which way?” Sam asked, noticing there was no light in either direction.
Jesse pointed his flashlight to the left. “That way.”
“You’re sure?” Sam asked, “Everything is dark.”
“I’m sure! I’ve been exploring these tunnels since I was a kid when my father worked in them. It’s a long tunnel and the adit at the entrance has been closed off with timber to stop would-be ghost mine explorers from getting themselves killed.”
“All right. Let’s just hope we can get out.”
Jesse grinned. “We’ll get out of here. They haven’t yet built the mine that could contain me indefinitely.”
They set out at a jogging pace with intermittent five-minute intervals of walking. Jesse expressed significant pain in his gluteus maximus muscles from his wound.
It was nearly another hour before the velvet darkness of the tunnel was torn by the sudden shining of a bright light and the sound of a motorcycle.
Sam pointed his flashlight at a small opening in the side of the tunnel. “Everyone in!”
The motorcycle’s two-stroke engine whined as though its rider had suddenly spotted their light. A hunter racing toward its prey.
All three of them switched off their flashlights and clambered into a small excavation in the side of the tunnel. Squatting down inside the alcove, Sam felt something hard and metal. His fingers gripped the handle. He picked up the old miner’s tool. It was long, approximately three or four feet, and heavy. Even in the pitch dark, he could the imagine the old pry bar being used to dislodge larger pieces of stone from the crumbling wall.
He gripped it and silently made his way to the very edge of the tunnel. There, he waited, as the motorcycle raced toward him at full speed, its rider oblivious to the peril hiding in wait. It was hardly sharp enough to inflict any real damage on the rider, but maybe it could be used for another purpose.
Sam listened as the rider got closer.
The bike raced by.
Sam drove the iron pry bar through the forks in the front wheel.
The prybar clanged against the fork with a crashing thump as the wheel locked, sending the rider flipping forward.
In the dark it was hard to see the bike flip, and its rider landed with a sickening crunch into the rocky wall of the tunnel. The bike’s headlight remained intact, providing a meager amount of ambient light.
Sam moved quickly in the darkness.
With his small dive knife in hand, he moved the blade to the rider’s throat, before the rider had time to orient himself again or reach for his weapon.
Sam felt the warm, sticky, liquid cover his hands.
A moment later, Sam removed the knife.
There was no need to guard a dead man.
The rider’s un-helmeted face had been smashed by the rock, crushing part of the man’s face, killing him instantly.
Sam searched the man and removed his handgun — a Glock 19 — checked that its magazine was fully loaded, and prepared to continue on the outward stretch.
“Is he, all right?” Sandi asked, in a voice Sam mistook for panicked concern.
Sam shook his head. “He’s dead.”
She sighed. “Thank god!”
Sam said, “At least we know that way leads out.”
“Let’s keep going,” Jesse said, indifferently.
But Sam stepped into the alcove again and said, “We’re not going anywhere yet.”
Because the light of a second rider started to race toward them.
Chapter Eighteen
Hidden in the alcove for a second time, Sam waited with the handgun drawn.
He watched as the motorcycle passed and then slowed to a stop twenty or so feet away, its rider dismounting to investigate his comrade.
While the rider squatted down, Sam approached with his Glock drawn. “Hands in the air!”
The rider paused, raised his hands.
Sam asked, “Who sent you?”
The man remained silent.
“Why did you want to hide the mask?” Sam persisted.
Still no response.
“We have the mask and the world will know all about it soon enough, so you’d better start talking.”
The rider’s eyes widened and the lines in his face deepened.
“Why are you trying to bury it forever?”
Still no response.
“Yeah, well, your plan failed miserably. You failed. The whole world will know the truth soon.”
The man shook his head. “You have no idea what’s at stake, do you?”
“With what?” Sam asked.
“We’ve failed.” The man’s voice was quiet, barely a coarse whisper, beneath his choked breath. “After centuries, the masks are going to be combined and we will have failed in our task to protect the world.”