Page 233 of The Reluctant Hero

“Shit. This is it.”

She nods and pulls the doors open, descending as if she’s immortal.

“God damn it, South,” I rage, following behind her as close as I can.

As we start down the stairs, lights come on, freezing me for a moment.

It’s exactly the same and not at the same time. The stairs aren’t carpeted. Our steps sound a lot more hollow and echo back to us. It's an eerily empty feeling despite the addition of bright lighting.

I look down the steps to the ground below. It’s concrete, not marble. This setup isn’t ready yet, but I can already tell it’s close to it.

My anger settles into cold laser focus, relaxing me as I continue down to join South at the bottom.

The concierge desk is built but not functional yet. I pass it to go through the doorway, but there isn’t a door yet.

Everything is the bare bones of what I saw before. The only thing that seems almost ready is the kitchen area. Fridges are set up and humming even though they’re empty. Ovens and stations for cooking.

The further I go, the more cold I feel. Not the doom feeling, which hasn’t changed, just memories. The blank walls flicker in my mind’s eye to be covered in wallpaper with beds blatantly displayed. There aren’t any beds here. The lights work all the way through. The drug room is empty. No counter or setup for the locked-up section. But the final room is ready. I take one look at the cages and turn around.

“No people,” South comments as she catches up with me.

I nod in agreement.

This place is too close to being completed. It needs to disappear.

“Do you have a lighter?” I ask her casually and stop in the kitchen again.

“I have a spare for emergencies in the truck,” she offers, watching me curiously.

“Go get it,” I clench my teeth and set Jakob aside to start pulling the stoves away from the wall—just far enough for me to disconnect the gas line.

By the time I’ve finished all five, the stench of gas is almost overwhelming. The vents aren’t open, so it’s building up and giving me a headache despite my flimsy shirt covering my mouth and nose. I’m coughing as I make my way up the stairs leading out.

“You stink,” South notes absently when I join her at the truck.

Out in the open air, it’s easier to breathe, but the headache and eye-watering effect are still going strong. I can’t even snark back at her. I feel like if I open my mouth, I’ll puke.

She finishes cutting an old shirt into strips with an old-fashioned straight razor that looks menacing. The ends get soaked in isopropyl alcohol from her emergency kit. I watch without comment as she paces to the open doors, lights the ends and casually tosses them down before closing the doors.

We get into the truck and sit still.

It isn’t going to work. The place is huge, and those scraps of fabric will go out long before the gas gets to it.

The feeling of doom presses harder on my chest, slowly getting heavier the longer I sit here.

“We need to go,” I say weakly, my stomach flipping all over itself. “Now.”

She starts the truck and pulls away without question. The farther we get from the site, the better I feel—until there’s a loud pop, and I catch something being flung into the air in the side mirror.

I turn to see a belch of smoke rise into the sky as the metal door lands with a clatter on the road behind us.

South glances at the rearview mirror and makes a thoughtful sound.

“It actually worked?” I gape in disbelief.

She pulls to the side as a fire truck passes us with sirens blaring.

“It isn’t destroyed, but we’ll have more time to narrow things down. I’ll take care of the other places we saw today.”

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