Little Red Ridinghood Lost Her Way. The clever mnemonic device I came up with to navigate this next-to-last building. I hang a left at the first juncture, then a right, then another right, then a left. Her stands for high, meaning I hit the first stairwell after Lost. Of course, I could have just used the word high, but that would ruin the mnemonics. Little Red Ridinghood’s Lost Highway? Come on.
I don’t see anyone, don’t hear anyone except the eerie General Order Four voice echoing down the empty halls—“YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS”—and now I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this General Order Four business, and I’m cursing Ringer, because obviously General Order Four must be an important piece of intel she either should have known about or chose not to mention for reasons only clear to her.
As I race up the stairs, the final countdown begins: “TEN SECONDS . . . NINE . . . EIGHT . . . SEVEN . . . SIX . . .”
Landing. One more flight. Then straight ahead to the walkway that connects this building with the command center. Almost there, Cassie. You’ve got this.
“THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE.”
I shove open the door.
Total darkness smashes down.
82
NO LIGHT. NO SIREN. No voice so soothing, it’s unnerving. Total dark, utter silence. My first thought is that Ringer must have cut the power. My next thought is how odd that would be, since we never discussed cutting the power. My third thought? Same as the one on the chopper: Ringer’s a plant, a double agent, working with Vosch to accomplish his nefarious scheme for total world domination. Probably a power-sharing arrangement: Very well, it’s decided. You will control all territory west of the Mississippi . . .
I dig into my pockets for the penlight. I know I grabbed one. I specifically remember checking the batteries before tucking it away. In my panic—okay, not panic, haste, I am in haste—I pull out a power bar and thumb the switch that is not there. Damn you and your damn bars, Ben Parish! I hurl the bar into the void.
I’m not disoriented. I know where I am. Straight ahead is the walkway to the command center. I can hunt for the light as I go. No biggie. Once I’m in the center, there’re a couple of heavily manned checkpoints to pass, several steel doors with electronic locks to breach, four flights of stairs, a mile-long hallway terminating at a green door, which I won’t be able to tell is green unless I can find my fucking penlight.
I shuffle forward, one hand sweeping the air in front of me, the other patting, digging, fumbling, and clawing at my fatigues. Too many pockets. Too many damn pockets. My breath a tornado ripping across the prairie. My heart a freight train rumbling down the tracks. Should I stop and empty all my pockets? Wouldn’t I end up saving time? I keep moving, part of me marveling at the fact that something like losing a penlight could throw me.
Chill, Cassie. In situations like this, darkness is your friend.
Unless they’ve got IR, which of course they do. They’ve blinded me; they’re sure as hell not blind.
I keep moving. In haste. Not panic.
Halfway across the walkway now. I know I’m halfway across because I find the light and click on the damned elusive thing. The beam hits the frosted glass doors straight ahead, a blurry blob of shininess. I draw my sidearm. On the other side of those doors is the first checkpoint. I know this for a fact—or a Ringer-supplied fact. It’s also our rendezvous spot, basically because this is as far as I was going to get as a non-enhanced, ordinary mortal.
The command center is the most heavily fortified building on base, manned by elite troops and protected by state-of-the-art surveillance technology. After she set off her last diversionary IED, Ringer was hitting the center from the opposite end (penetrating was the word she used, which made me feel all icky) and meeting me here, after Ringer did what Ringer does best: kill people.
Are you killing Vosch before meeting me? I asked.
If I find him first.
Well, don’t go out of your way. The quicker we can get to Wonderland . . .
And she gave me a look like, Don’t tell me. So I responded with a look that said, I’m telling you.
Nothing to do now but wait. I sidestep to the wall. Switch out the handgun for the rifle. Try not to worry about where she is, if she is, and what’s taking her so long. Also, I need to pee.
So when I hear you set off the fifth bomb . . .
Fourth. I’m holding the fifth in reserve.
Reserve for what?
I’m going to stuff it in his mouth and light it.
She said it with no emotion. No hate or satisfaction or anticipation or anything. Sure, she says most things unemotionally, but this was one of those things where you expect a little passion to permeate.
You must really hate him.
Hate isn’t the answer.
I didn’t ask a question.
It isn’t hate and it isn’t rage, Sullivan.
Okay, then. What is the answer? Feeling like I’ve been manipulated into asking the question.
She turned away.
I wait beside the frosted glass doors. The minutes crawl. Dear God, how long could it take a superhuman WMD to overcome a few guards and foil a high-tech security system? After the furious rush to reach this spot, nothing. I’d be bored out of my mind if I wasn’t already scared out of it. Where the hell is Ringer?
Click. I turn off the light to save the batteries. The unfortunate by-product of my thriftiness is that darkness returns. Click. On. Click. Off. Click, click, click, click.
Hissssss. I hear the sound before I feel the water.
It’s raining.
83
CLICK. I SHINE THE LIGHT toward the ceiling. The sprinklers are running at full throttle. Cool water spatters my upturned face.