Page 102 of Dead Mountain

Using the sliver of light as a guide, Corrie crept along the wall until she reached the door that led back into the living room. She flattened herself against the frame and then, shielding the light completely, peered around. At first the room appeared to be empty . . . but as she stared into the blackness, she saw a faint gleam. A slim beam of red light played around in the hall outside the living room door. A moment later, a dim figure appeared in the doorway. It was a big man—not Sharp. He was dressed in unusual camo that no FBI agent or military team would use.

These weren’t FBI. And they weren’t military. Who could it be? DeGregorio? It didn’t seem possible. DeGregorio was in Indonesia . . . or was he? How could he be up here? But he was the one person who had everything to protect, and he knew about the bunker and the journal that would incriminate him. They had left an easy-to-follow snowmobile trail. If his role in the expedition came out, his life would be over. He had every reason to stop them.

The figure moved cautiously into the room, shining the pencil light to and fro. Another figure followed him. Both had military-style Colt .45s at the ready. They moved like professionals, mercenaries or hired soldiers, intent on searching every possible hiding place.

Quietly, Corrie moved away from the living room and into the bedroom, being careful to keep her light low and out of the door’s line of sight. She gestured Nora to follow her toward the closed door in the rear of the bedroom.

Soundlessly crossing the deep pile rug, they reached the door. Corrie grasped the knob. Ever so slowly she began to open it. The faintest creaking sigh broke the stillness, and she froze. But there was no reaction in the hallway.

The door, to Corrie’s dismay, led into a large walk-in closet hung with a scattering of musty suits, coats, and other clothes. All the pockets had been turned inside out, obviously by O’Connell. She momentarily considered using the closet to hide, but then dismissed the idea: it would be the first place they’d search.

Quelling a wave of despair, she stepped back from the door, signaling Nora to follow. There was one more closed door to its right, bigger than the closet door. They had to move quickly now—she could hear movement in the living room, furniture being pushed aside. They would enter the bedroom at any moment.

The large door opened smoothly—thank God—and she saw, with a surge of relief, that it led onto a corridor. They quickly slipped through, then Corrie eased the door shut and turned on her headlamp.

They tiptoed down the corridor to a vestibule with two doors set opposite each other. Corrie opened one, probing the space beyond with her light. It was a salon turned into storage: she could make out an old grand piano, several folding screens, boxes of bric-a-brac, filing cabinets, many overturned in disarray in what had clearly been O’Connell’s desperate attempt to find water.

At the far end of the room was another door.

Shutting the door to the corridor, the two moved past the piano and through the maze of filing cabinets and overturned boxes to the far door. It was unlocked and exposed yet another empty tunnel, this one curving sharply to the left. Fifty yards on, as they rounded the curve, the tunnel ended in another door.

Nora stopped. “Any idea who’s in here?”

“I think it’s DeGregorio’s men.”

“Shit.” A moment of silence. “Look,” Nora continued at a whisper, “we need a plan. We can’t just keep going through doors and taking tunnels at random. If we want to get out of here, the only thing to do is outflank them. Get around behind and then go out the way we came in.”

“Good idea. But I’m totally lost.”

“Really?” Nora shook her head. “Me too.”

“That leaves us only one option: keep going until we find the exit.” Corrie grasped the knob, turned it, and eased the door open a crack. To her surprise, the door opened into an elegant space, clearly still part of the presidential suite. As she peered out, she guessed they had entered a room somewhere on the left-hand corridor—the one they hadn’t taken initially.

This might help get them past the searchers. Cupping her light again, Corrie slipped through the room and to the door opening onto the main hallway of the suite. She could see down the mirrored corridor a distant reddish glow coming from an open door, which she realized must be the bedroom area where the men were still searching. They had come around in a circle.

Nora poked her shoulder, then pointed across the corridor to a door that was plainer than the others. With the palm of one hand, she mimed a large, gentle turn to the left. Immediately, Corrie understood. Nora, with a keener sense of direction, was indicating that the door might just lead back in the direction of the exit tunnel, completing a circuit of the presidential complex.

They scurried across to the door and Corrie opened it.

“Hey! There they are!” a voice cried from the hallway beyond. A red beam, held by a man at the far end of the corridor, spotlighted them.

“Son of a bitch.” Corrie backed up, almost stumbling in her hurry, and slammed the door. “Run!”

They ran, backtracking across the hall and into the curved tunnel. They heard the door crash open behind them, followed by pounding footsteps and shouted voices, echoing strangely through the confined spaces. They burst into the room with the piano, ran past the litter of papers and boxes, then out into the vestibule beyond. Opposite them was another door, which Corrie opened and dived through, Nora following close behind.

The thudding footsteps of their pursuers were growing closer. “Stop!” one of them called. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

Beyond the door was a small screening room, with seats, a sloped floor, and a stage. They ran down the center aisle and onto the stage.

Suddenly, gunfire—shatteringly loud after the whispers and patter of feet—echoed through the chamber, the rounds smacking the proscenium above them and spraying plaster dust and chips. Corrie yanked Nora behind a nearby curtain, pulled her 9mm SIG, ducked back out, and fired two rounds at their pursuers.

“That’ll slow those motherfuckers,” she said.

Behind the stage was a dark, narrow space, with open doors leading into a green room, a dressing room, and a hallway that led off into gloom, arcing back in the direction they’d just run from: not exactly the way out they were looking for.

Corrie turned to face the stage, gun extended, ready to make a stand. She could hear thudding footfalls and raspy breathing. The noise abruptly stopped on the far side of the curtain.

“We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to talk,” said a voice.

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