She knew where to find the keys. And where to find the truck. And she remembered the big LPG—liquid petroleum gas—tank Jim used to fire the smelter.
Her plan was simple: Retrieve the keys. With Cookie’s help, load the gas tank into Jim’s truck. Drive the truck and the tank to the mine entrance. Open the valve on the gas and let it seep into the mine shaft.
Then light a fuse and run.
She didn’t know if the explosion would kill the thing in the mine. But she hoped to bury it under many tons of rock.
The Darkness had called to her in her dreams and in her waking dreams as well. It had its hook in her and she knew it was drawing her in.
Come to me. I have need of you.
It wanted her.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” Lana half sang, half whispered. “I’m coming to talk with you again.”
TWENTY-TWO
18 HOURS, 18 MINUTES
JACK WOKE TO pain.
He’d been moved. Someone had turned him over. He sat up too suddenly. His head swam, and for a moment he thought he would pass out again.
One leg of his trousers had been crudely ripped to expose the wound. There was a blue, blood-soaked bandage tied around his lower thigh. It hurt. It burned like someone was sticking a red-hot poker into his flesh.
Diana was beside him. It took him a moment to make sense of her shaved head. “I found these in one of the offices. Take them.” She transferred four Advil from her hand to his. “It’s twice the regular dose, but I doubt it will kill you.”
“What happened?” he rasped.
“Bullet. But it just grazed you and kept going. It cut a kind of neat little furrow. It’ll hurt, but the bleeding’s already stopped.”
“Okay, Jack, snap out of it,” Caine said. He sounded harried and worried. Things weren’t going quite as he had planned. “You know what you’re here for.”
Two of Drake’s soldiers returned, loudly abusing Mickey Finch and Mike Farmer, who had their hands tied behind them. They’d been found hiding in offices. Cowering under desks. “Oh good,” Caine said breezily, “the hostages are here.”
“We told them to throw down any guns they had, and this retard just did,” one of the goons crowed. “All we had was a shotgun and a pistol and this kid had a machine gun and he still gave up. Little wussy. The other one didn’t have a gun.”
Mickey and Mike looked miserable and very afraid. Their expressions grew bleaker still when they saw Brittney on the floor in a puddle of blood.
Drake strode toward them, pushed Mike aside, and grabbed the machine gun. He ran his tentacle over the stock, over the cocking mechanism, holding it almost reverently. There was an expression not far from love in his cold, blue eyes. “I like this. The girl’s gun was a piece of crap, but this is cool. Very cool.”
“Maybe you two should get a room,” Diana said.
“None of the freaks has power enough to mess with me if I’m carrying one of these,” Drake said.
“Yeah, not even Caine,” Diana agreed brightly. “Now you can be the boss, right?”
Jack stood rooted in place watching all this, still unable to focus on his so-called job.
How had he let himself be dragged into this? There was a girl not ten feet away from him who might die, if she wasn’t dead already. He could take three steps and be standing in her blood, as he was sitting in his own.
“Jack,” Caine said. “Snap out of it. Get to work. Now!”
Jack moved like he was in a dream, shaking his head, his ears still ringing from the gunfire. His leg burned. And the material of his trousers, wet, clung to him. He stepped gingerly to the nearest computer console and sat down heavily in a swivel chair. The monitor was old. The look of the software was old. The computer didn’t even have a mouse, it was all keyboard-controlled.
His heart sank further still. Old software meant all kinds of keystrokes, nothing he was used to. He slid open a drawer hoping to find a manual, or at least a cheat sheet.
“How’s it look?” Caine asked. He laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly gesture meant to reassure Jack. For the first time in his life it occurred to Jack that he wanted to spin around and punch Caine. Punch him hard.
“It’s totally unfamiliar software,” Jack said.
“Nothing you can’t handle, though. Right?”
“I can’t do it very fast,” Jack said. “I have to work through it.”
The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip. “How long, Jack?”
“Hey, I’m hurt, all right? I got shot!” When Caine just stared at him, he lowered his voice. “I don’t know. It depends.”
He could sense Caine’s tension, the bottled-up rage that fed on fear. “Then don’t waste time.”
Caine released him and turned back to Drake. “Put the hostages in the corner.”
“Uh-huh,” Drake said absently. He was still fondling the submachine gun.
Caine strode quickly up to him and smacked the barrel of the gun. “Hey. Take care of business. Brianna could be back here at any second. If it’s not her, it’ll be Taylor. You’d better not be screwing around.”
Brittney lay on the floor, not moving, not making a sound. Was she alive? Jack wondered. Given how badly she was hurt, and knowing now how much pain even a grazing wound could cause, he wondered if she might not be better off dead.
Jack found an ancient loose-leaf binder, smallish, with torn page ends sticking out here and there, festooned with age-curled Post-it notes marking pages.
Her plan was simple: Retrieve the keys. With Cookie’s help, load the gas tank into Jim’s truck. Drive the truck and the tank to the mine entrance. Open the valve on the gas and let it seep into the mine shaft.
Then light a fuse and run.
She didn’t know if the explosion would kill the thing in the mine. But she hoped to bury it under many tons of rock.
The Darkness had called to her in her dreams and in her waking dreams as well. It had its hook in her and she knew it was drawing her in.
Come to me. I have need of you.
It wanted her.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” Lana half sang, half whispered. “I’m coming to talk with you again.”
TWENTY-TWO
18 HOURS, 18 MINUTES
JACK WOKE TO pain.
He’d been moved. Someone had turned him over. He sat up too suddenly. His head swam, and for a moment he thought he would pass out again.
One leg of his trousers had been crudely ripped to expose the wound. There was a blue, blood-soaked bandage tied around his lower thigh. It hurt. It burned like someone was sticking a red-hot poker into his flesh.
Diana was beside him. It took him a moment to make sense of her shaved head. “I found these in one of the offices. Take them.” She transferred four Advil from her hand to his. “It’s twice the regular dose, but I doubt it will kill you.”
“What happened?” he rasped.
“Bullet. But it just grazed you and kept going. It cut a kind of neat little furrow. It’ll hurt, but the bleeding’s already stopped.”
“Okay, Jack, snap out of it,” Caine said. He sounded harried and worried. Things weren’t going quite as he had planned. “You know what you’re here for.”
Two of Drake’s soldiers returned, loudly abusing Mickey Finch and Mike Farmer, who had their hands tied behind them. They’d been found hiding in offices. Cowering under desks. “Oh good,” Caine said breezily, “the hostages are here.”
“We told them to throw down any guns they had, and this retard just did,” one of the goons crowed. “All we had was a shotgun and a pistol and this kid had a machine gun and he still gave up. Little wussy. The other one didn’t have a gun.”
Mickey and Mike looked miserable and very afraid. Their expressions grew bleaker still when they saw Brittney on the floor in a puddle of blood.
Drake strode toward them, pushed Mike aside, and grabbed the machine gun. He ran his tentacle over the stock, over the cocking mechanism, holding it almost reverently. There was an expression not far from love in his cold, blue eyes. “I like this. The girl’s gun was a piece of crap, but this is cool. Very cool.”
“Maybe you two should get a room,” Diana said.
“None of the freaks has power enough to mess with me if I’m carrying one of these,” Drake said.
“Yeah, not even Caine,” Diana agreed brightly. “Now you can be the boss, right?”
Jack stood rooted in place watching all this, still unable to focus on his so-called job.
How had he let himself be dragged into this? There was a girl not ten feet away from him who might die, if she wasn’t dead already. He could take three steps and be standing in her blood, as he was sitting in his own.
“Jack,” Caine said. “Snap out of it. Get to work. Now!”
Jack moved like he was in a dream, shaking his head, his ears still ringing from the gunfire. His leg burned. And the material of his trousers, wet, clung to him. He stepped gingerly to the nearest computer console and sat down heavily in a swivel chair. The monitor was old. The look of the software was old. The computer didn’t even have a mouse, it was all keyboard-controlled.
His heart sank further still. Old software meant all kinds of keystrokes, nothing he was used to. He slid open a drawer hoping to find a manual, or at least a cheat sheet.
“How’s it look?” Caine asked. He laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly gesture meant to reassure Jack. For the first time in his life it occurred to Jack that he wanted to spin around and punch Caine. Punch him hard.
“It’s totally unfamiliar software,” Jack said.
“Nothing you can’t handle, though. Right?”
“I can’t do it very fast,” Jack said. “I have to work through it.”
The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip. “How long, Jack?”
“Hey, I’m hurt, all right? I got shot!” When Caine just stared at him, he lowered his voice. “I don’t know. It depends.”
He could sense Caine’s tension, the bottled-up rage that fed on fear. “Then don’t waste time.”
Caine released him and turned back to Drake. “Put the hostages in the corner.”
“Uh-huh,” Drake said absently. He was still fondling the submachine gun.
Caine strode quickly up to him and smacked the barrel of the gun. “Hey. Take care of business. Brianna could be back here at any second. If it’s not her, it’ll be Taylor. You’d better not be screwing around.”
Brittney lay on the floor, not moving, not making a sound. Was she alive? Jack wondered. Given how badly she was hurt, and knowing now how much pain even a grazing wound could cause, he wondered if she might not be better off dead.
Jack found an ancient loose-leaf binder, smallish, with torn page ends sticking out here and there, festooned with age-curled Post-it notes marking pages.
