Page 12 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

Fat Gandhi made a tsk-tsk noise. "That won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because I told you something of an untruth."

Myron said nothing.

"Your friend is not listening to you. All devices, including our own cell phones, are jammed right now. That is how this room is designed. Just to be completely safe. Our advanced Wi-Fi is working, but it's password protected. You're not on it, I'm afraid. So whatever devices you may have hidden in whatever crevices are completely useless."

The fingers typing on the keyboards seemed to slow down a bit.

"Doesn't matter," Myron said.

"Say again?"

"I smashed your friend's laptop."

Thin Guy: "Cost me a fortune! The bastard--"

"Quiet, Lester." Fat Gandhi turned back toward Myron. "So?"

"So the phone wasn't jammed when I arrived. My people know I'm here. They'll be waiting outside. You send the two boys out; they'll pick them up. Easy, right?"

Myron gave them all Smile 19: The "We're All Friends Here" deluxe.

Fat Gandhi stuck his hand out. "Give me the bag, please."

"Give me the kids."

He waved his chubby hand, his bracelet tight on his wrist, and the big flat-screen on the wall lit up.

"Happy?"

It was the cell again. The two boys were seated on the floor, their knees up, their heads down.

"Where are they?"

Fat Gandhi's smile felt like a dozen snakes running down your back.

"I'll show you. Wait here, please."

Fat Gandhi pressed a code into the door's keypad, making sure that Myron couldn't see him. He stepped out of the room. Two more camouflaged guys stepped in as he left.

Hmm, why?

The room grew quiet. The typing came to a stop. Myron tried to read their faces.

Something wasn't right.

Two minutes later, Myron heard Fat Gandhi's voice say, "Mr. Bolitar?"

He was on the big flat-screen now.

In the cell with the two boys.

Win had gotten it right. They were being held right here in the arcade.

"Bring them out," Myron said.

Fat Gandhi just smiled into the camera. "Derek?"

One of the guys said, "I'm here."

"Any movements on the surveillance cameras?" Fat Gandhi asked.

"None."

Fat Gandhi waved his finger. "No cavalry on their way to rescue you, Mr. Bolitar."

Uh-oh.

"Rescue me from what?"

"You killed three of my men."

The temperature in the room changed, not in a good way. Everyone started moving slowly.

"I didn't have anything to do with that."

"Please, Mr. Bolitar. Lying is beneath you."

Pants One took out a large knife. So did Pants Two.

"Do you see my dilemma, Mr. Bolitar? It would have been one thing if you and your partners had approached me in a respectful manner."

A third guy rose from behind his computer. He also had a knife.

Myron tried to work it through. Grab Pants One's knife, then go after the guy on the right . . .

"You could have come to us. Like businessmen. You could have asked for a fair exchange. An arrangement. We could have worked with you . . ."

No, that wouldn't work. Too much distance between them. And the door is locked . . .

"But you didn't do that, Mr. Bolitar. Instead you slaughtered three of my men."

Derek took a knife out. Jimmy too.

Then the skinny kid produced a machete.

Six guys, all armed, in a small room.

"How can I let you just walk out of here after that? How would it look? How could my men ever trust me to take care of them?"

Maybe duck down, throw a back kick . . . but no. Have to get the machete first. But he's farther away. Too many of them, the space too tight.

"I would stay in the room and observe the outcome, but in this suit? It's new and rather lovely."

There was no chance. They started coming closer.

"Articulate!" Myron shouted.

Everyone stopped for a second. Myron dropped to the floor and braced himself.

That was when the wall exploded.

The sound was deafening. The wall gave way as though the Incredible Hulk had burst through from the street. The others were caught off guard, Myron not so much. He knew that Win would come up with something. He had figured that Win would find a way past the cameras. He hadn't. He said he had cased the place last night. He had found the exterior wall to this room. He had probably placed a strong listening device on it, so he would know when to make a move.

Had he used some sort of dynamite or rocket-propelled grenade?

Myron didn't know.

Shock and awe, baby. Win's forte.

The guys in the room didn't know what hit them. But they would.

Myron moved fast. From his position on the floor, he snaked his leg out and took one of the guys down. It was Pants Two. Myron grabbed the man's knife hand. Pants Two, running on pure survival instinct, held on tight. That was okay. Myron counted on that. He had no intention of trying to wrestle the knife away. Instead, holding the man by the wrist, Myron jerked his hand upward.

The blade, still being gripped by the guy's hand, lodged into Pants Two's throat.

Blood spurted. And the hand dropped away.

The knife made a noise like a wet, sucking pop as Myron pulled it free. The rest was pandemonium. The dust from the collapsed wall made it difficult to see. Myron could hear coughing and shouts. The commotion must have gotten the attention of the guy standing guard in the corridor.

When he opened the door, Myron was on him. He landed a punch straight to the nose, driving the man back into the corridor. Myron stayed on him. He didn't want to kill anyone else if he didn't have to. He threw another punch. The guy staggered back against the wall. Myron grabbed him by the throat and placed the tip of the bloody knife right up against the guy's eye.

"Please!"

"How do I get to the basement?"

"The door on the left. Code 8787."

Myron punched the guy in the stomach, let him slide to the floor, and ran. He found the door, hit the code, pushed it open.

The first thing that hit him, almost knocking him back, was the stench.

There are few things that cause deja vu like powerful odors. Something like that was happening here. Myron was traveling back to his basketball days, to the stink of a locker room after a game, the wheeled laundry carts loaded up with the sweat-filled socks, shirts, and athletic supporters of adolescents. The smell had been awful, but after a game or practice, when it was something as pure as previously clean boys playing basketball, there had been an underlying sweetness that made the smell, if not pleasant, tolerable.

That wasn't the case here.

It was dirt filled and rancid and bad.

When Myron looked down from the top of the stairs, he couldn't believe what he saw.

Twenty, maybe thirty teenagers were scampering like rats when you hit them with a flashlight beam.

What the . . . ?

The basement looked like a bad refugee camp. There were cots and blankets and sleeping bags. No time to worry about that. As Myron started down the stairs, he saw the cell.

Empty.

He reached the bottom and turned to his right. The kids clambered toward that corner like something out of a zombie film--like they were climbing over one another and feeding on something stuck there. Myron started toward it. Kids got in his way. Myron pushed them aside. They were boys mostly, but there were a few girls sprinkled in too. They all looked at him with hollow, lost eyes, still pushing forward.

"Where is Fat Gandhi? Where are the boys he had in that cell?"

No one answered. They kept pushing and shoving toward that corner. Was there a door there or . . .

A hole?

The kids were disappearing into some kind of hole in the concrete.

Myron pick

ed up his pace now, even if it meant being rougher than he wanted with these kids. One of them started screaming and clawing at Myron's face. Myron knocked him away. He moved like a linebacker now, lowering his shoulder, throwing body blows, until he got to the hole.

Another kid started to climb into it.

It was a tunnel.

Myron grabbed the kid from behind. Other kids pushed in, trying to get to the opening. Myron held firm. He pulled the kid so that his face was right up against his.

"Is that where Fat Gandhi went? Did he take two boys with him?"

"We're all supposed to go," the boy said with a nod. "Otherwise the coppers will find us."

They were pushing in again. Myron had two choices. Move to the side or . . .

He dived into the hole and landed on the cold, damp floor. When he stood up, his head whacked concrete. He saw stars for a moment. The tunnel's ceiling was low. Shorter guys could probably run. Myron was not so lucky.

Other kids started flowing in behind him.

Have to move, Myron thought.

"Patrick!" he screamed. "Rhys!"

For a moment, he could hear only the scraping sounds of kids escaping through this dark tunnel. And then he heard someone scream: "Help!"

Myron felt his pulse race. The scream might have been short and only a word, but Myron knew one thing for certain.

The accent was American.

He tried to pick up his pace. There were boys already crowded into the tunnel, blocking his progress. Girls too. He swam past them.

"Patrick! Rhys!"

Lots of echoes. But no one returned his call.

The tunnel's height and thickness were inconsistent, constantly changing. It twisted and turned in unexpected ways. The walls were black and old and wet. The few dim lights made the place feel more ghostly.

There were teenagers on either side of him, behind him, in front of him. Some rushed forward; some fell behind.

Myron grabbed one harder than he meant to and pulled him up to his face: "Where does this tunnel lead?"

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