Page 66 of Silk and Steel

“Oh, Cole. I so rarely get to work with such a magnificent canvas. I love your tattoos. I plan to carefully carve them from your still living body and preserve them. Perhaps I’ll hang them on my wall down in Colombia. I have a lot of space to decorate.”

Something isn’t right. I creep inside the door, staying low and keeping my eyes peeled. No tripwires, or motion sensors that I can see. My eyes adjust to the gloom. Some shafts of sunlight make it through the uneven ceiling camo, but it’s not much light to see by.

“Cole, oh Cole,” Blumbert says again, this time from much closer. I come up to a small office area, with a desk and an old rotary phone. I try to turn on the lights, but the switch just clicks with no response.

“I bet you can’t find me, Cole.”

That was damn close. In fact, it was under the desk.

I keep the gun pointed at the desk as I grab the edge. With a grunt, I flip it up into the air and slap my now free hand onto the pistol. Aiming with two hands, I see no one on the concrete floor. Just a small, rectangular object.

“Come and get me, Sailor Boy. I bet you were a big fan of that don’t ask, don’t tell policy, right? Everyone knows that sailors are basically just–”

I turn off the tape recorder. The fuck did he even find an analog device like this? Then again, it’s LA. It’s possibly a movie prop.

The groan of metal from above is my only warning. Something whisks through the air, creating a slight whistle. Ithrow myself on the ground and roll to the side a split second before I hear a tremendous crash.

Looking up, I see an engine block on a chain swinging back heavily from the hole it just made in the hangar wall. If I had still been standing there, I would be out of commission, if not dead outright.

A trap. Just like Diego tried to warn me about. We actually met behind a one-percenter biker bar in Fresno, and the whole carjacking thing was totally fabricated bullshit. They must have got to Diego. Damn it, Lovejoy was at the same party we were. He probably saw me talking to Diego and planned accordingly.

Emory said not to underestimate Lovejoy, even if he is crazy and off his rocker. I made a mistake and nearly paid for it with my life.

Now I wonder if Emory is even here at all. If this is a trap, I could just turn around and leave. Nothing in the Surgeon's background suggests he has skills at land navigation or tracking. I could make it back to the truck.

But then what? Emory could still be inside, somewhere. If I leave now, I might lose her forever. My best bet is to stay, and try to find Blumbert and question him. That means I need to take him alive.

While he’s free to try and kill me. Great.

I examine the tape for clues. It says sixty minutes per side. There doesn’t appear to be any blank tape before Blumbert’s voice kicks in.

So that means he must have pressed play and then hoofed it. He could be anywhere inside the hangar by now.

Sweat stands out on my body as I move through the office toward a set of doors. I expect them to lead into the hangar proper, a vast chamber for storing aircraft. Instead, I find the doors take me into a hallway. Again, I believe that a storage container has been repurposed as part of this structure.

It’s almost pitch black inside the hallway. I move in a low crouch, silently as possible. My fear for Emory, not to mention the ever present risk of death, threaten to give my limbs a tremble.

I spark up the flame in my mind, and feed it all of my emotions. All of my turmoil, even all of my affection for Emory. Right now, feeling anything is a liability. I need to be completely focused.

When the flame burns bright, fueled by my fear, I creep into the hallway fully. My hand feels for the wall. Something sharp jabs the tip of my middle finger. If I hadn’t fed the flame, I might have cried out and recoiled, giving away my position.

Instead, I calmly draw my finger back and examine it in the feeble light. Blood trickles from a small cut. It’s not deep or serious. Taking out my cell phone, I use the screen to reflect a little sunlight on the wall I just touched.

At first, I think there are a swarm of insects on the wall. But it soon becomes clear that something else is afoot. Razor blades, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, cover the walls of the storage container.

If I hadn’t been so careful, I could have maimed my hand. There’s no point in continuing this way–

The doors slam shut behind me. I spin around and fire off two rounds. The retort still echoes in my ears as holes appear in the doors. Retreating footsteps dwindle in the darkness. Blumbert, or maybe one of the others, running away after trapping me in here.

I try the doors. They give a little, but I can make out a stout chain holding them shut. I could try to shoot the chain off, but that’s more a movie trick than something reliable to do in the field. I’d probably waste my remaining ammo, and might still end up trapped.

Nothing to do but try and navigate the razor blade hallway. In total darkness. Piece of cake.

I use the pistol to “feel” my way through. It’s going well, until a wall I’m not expecting rears up. I can’t suppress a hiss as hot pain explodes in my forearm.

Now I understand. This isn’t just a hallway. It’s a damn maze with walls that cut. Jesus Christ, Blumbert must have spent hours upon hours attaching all of those to the walls. That’s dedication. If he weren’t a psychopath, I might be impressed.

I navigate the maze, and the cuts accumulate. My shoes slip in my own blood. I don’t want to think what this has done to my tats. I can always get them touched up.

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