Page 17 of The 9th Man

That was rude.

He swung back around, placed the shooter square in his gunsights, and squeezed the trigger. The man let out a yelp, then crumbled away.

The other two scrambled out of the line of fire.

No point hanging around.

He turned and hustled forward, hunched over in the pitch dark, trying not to make noise in the water. His foot caught a raised cobblestone and he pitched forward, catching himself on the side walls.

Careful now.

More rounds came from above, ricocheting off the brick walls, hurtling in every direction. One zipped past his head, then another.

The shots stopped for a moment.

He knew what that meant.

They’d cleared the way and now were coming down his way.

He heard splashes behind him.

A light clicked on.

He dropped into the water and rolled onto his back, aimed between his feet, and squeezed off half a dozen rounds. Did he hit anything? Hard to say. But the light beam found the floor, dulled by the water.

He stayed low and crawled ahead.

“Here,” a hushed voice said in the darkness.

A light came on, filtered by something. He saw Jillian, her hand over the phone light, motioning for him to come quick. He scampered ahead, escaping the water and entering a niche in the brick wall. She angled the phone light upward and he craned his neck to see a ten-foot ladder bolted into the wall that led to a closed wooden hatch.

“Have you tried that door?” he asked.

“It’s not locked, but something heavy is sitting on it.”

“Every few seconds send a shot down the tunnel. I don’t know if I got them or not.”

“We’re sure they’re not cops?”

“They’re angry and trigger-happy. That’s good enough for me. Stall them.”

He scaled the ladder and pressed his ear to the hatch. All was silent on the other side. Jillian kept firing periodically.

Then stopped.

“The gun’s dry,” she said. “They’re still there. At least two, maybe more.”

He coiled his legs on the ladder, planted his shoulder to the hatch, and stood up, straining until he heard something topple over.

The hatch burst open.

“Got it,” he called to Jillian.

She climbed up and he helped her emerge, then he slammed the hatch shut behind them. They were in a triangular-shaped storage room, perhaps twenty feet to a side, with one exit and no windows. A basement? Rough-hewn shelves bearing sacks of flour, rice, and millet lined the walls. A shabby recliner and side table had been blocking the hatch. Together they replaced them, then piled several of the heavy sacks on top for added measure.

Outside, police sirens wailed. For the moment they were safe, and he was glad for it. One look at Jillian’s face told him she felt the same.

“That was interesting,” he said.