Page 69

FLANKED BY TWO ARMED men, I passed through a door into a narrow hallway. As we walked, I steeled myself with three internal goals.

Number one: Find Bree and John.

Number two: Escape.

Number three: Get to the guns and survival gear.

They took me into a locker room, told me to shower, and left me jeans, long underwear, a shirt, a wool sweater, and socks and slippers.

As I showered, I thought about Willow’s Jiobit fob now out in the snowstorm and wondered whether its signal would carry. I prayed it would as they put zip ties on me and led me into an elevator that rose smoothly and slowed to a stop.

The door slid back, revealing a foyer of sorts with double wooden doors on the other side. Standing there, guarded by three armed men, were Bree and John.

I felt a huge weight fall from my shoulders. They were both alive.

“Alex!” Bree gasped and came over fast to me, her wrists in restraints as well.

“Go inside, please,” one of the guards said. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

At that I became aware of the smell of savory meat, garlic, onions, and basil. Bree took my right arm with her bound hands.

“Are you okay?”

“Sort of. You?”

“Sort of,” she said, and we started toward the double doors.

I looked over at Sampson, who nodded with a blank expression and a thousand-yard stare. I had known John long enough to understand: in his mind, in his heart, my oldest and dearest friend had gone total warrior.

That alone gave me a lot of hope when we went through the doors into another large, high-ceilinged space. Massive girders had been bolted into the rock ceiling. Dramatic lighting fixtures hung from the girders and shimmered like icicles.

The far wall was entirely covered in a crystal-clear digital closed-loop video that depicted an alpine valley surrounded by crags with a frozen river zigzagging through it. Wind blowing. Snow swirling.

The floor was stamped, stained concrete with large area rugs on top.

To our left a gas fire burned in front of modern furniture, all black and chrome. Beside the fireplace, there was an empty wheelchair with a blanket.

When I finally looked to my right, I froze and stared along with John and Bree. There was a large kitchen and dining area in the corner about fifty feet away, the space defined by an overhead trellis with more of those icicle lights hanging from it.

Three people were working in the kitchen. The lone female had her back to us at the stove. Short blond hair, green fleece top, dark tights. Lucas Bean worked beside her, wearing a gray sweatsuit, hood down to reveal his bullet-shaped head.

The other man in the kitchen was taller, slender, with wispy, sandy-gray hair. He wore horn-rimmed eyeglasses, a dark blue wool sweater, jeans, and running shoes. He leaned on a cane as he left the kitchen and hobbled toward us a few feet, then stopped and gestured to the digital mural and the snowy scene with his cane.

“Dr. Cross, Chief Stone, Detective Sampson, I wish you could see the real thing in all its glory. But it’s dark now and we have the shutters down for the storm.”

He came closer, his expression one of deep interest and irony, his mannerisms and speech pattern putting me in mind of the late actor William Hurt.

“They’re quite remarkable, the shutters. Five-inch steel holding the integrated digital screens you see on the interior. The exterior has been sand-blasted and powder-coated to match the color of the cliff face, and they are thick enough that we can’t be detected by heat-seekers. For all intents and purposes, we don’t exist here. We’re invisible, especially to prying satellites and such things. But here it is on a summer’s day.”

He picked up a remote from a table and clicked it.

The digital video changed, became the valley in midsummer with a riot of wildflowers blooming in the river bottom and eagles winging about.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” he said, his eyes glistening. He frowned and shook his head. “Oh, how rude of me. Dr. Cross and I have met. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”

Bree cut him off. “Ryan Malcomb.”

His eyes softened and he smiled as if he knew something she didn’t. “Am I?”

“You are,” Bree said. “I knew you weren’t dead, M.”