“You see this? I’m bleeding.”
“Just a scratch.”
“Fucking asshole!” the first voice yelled again. “When we get the word, I want to be the one who offs him.”
“Come on,” the second voice said.
The door at the end of the hallway opened, then shut. A second later, all was quiet again.
Another prisoner, she thought. Somebody else with a child? Some one who had been able to put up more of a fight than Marion had?
When they had taken her out earlier, she had counted two other doors, both on the same side of the hallway as the one to her cell, and behind them rooms she imagined were very much like her own. The door that had slammed shut hadn’t sounded close enough to be from the room next door. So whoever their new captive was, he or she had to be in the room nearest the exit.
If there was just some way she could communicate with him. She thought for a moment, her eyes searching the blackness for an answer. The idea that came to her wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
She removed her tennis shoes, then began tapping one against the metal door. Maybe the other person would be able to hear it.
Silence.
Still nothing.
She stopped. Had she heard something?
She waited, but the only thing she heard was her own breathing.
Marion almost cried. The other person had heard her.
For the next five minutes they tried to communicate with each other, tapping back and forth but with no more meaning than an acknowledgment that they knew the other was there, confirming that they were not alone, but little more.
The other prisoner’s responses began to lag, then finally stopped altogether. Marion continued tapping for several minutes, trying to get him to return her signal, but he had either lost interest, or worse, lost consciousness.
As a last resort, she found the crack between the door and the frame with her finger, then moved her mouth over.
“Can you hear me?” she yelled.
But she knew it was useless. Where the door had transmitted and amplified the tapping of her shoe, it also acted as an effective buffer, bouncing her voice back into the room and letting very little of it pass through.
She slumped to the floor, knowing that nothing had changed for her. In thirty minutes, in an hour, in a day — at some point they
When the hallway door opened again sometime later, she thought this time was it. Her turn to die. Only once again it was the door at the other end of the hallway that opened, not hers.
She could hear raised voices, but could not make out the words. She figured they were giving the new prisoner the same treatment they had given her.
Then a loud crack reverberated down the hall, and a few seconds later, another.
Gunshots. She had heard them in Africa, only more at a distance. Here the source of the sound was only a couple dozen feet away at most, and the metal hallway didn’t help, enhancing the noise instead of dampening it.
Marion scrambled into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest and pressing her hands against her ears. She didn’t want to hear the screams of pain, but they seeped through her fingers anyway.
When she thought it was over, a third gunshot rang out.
This time she was the one who screamed.
Quinn almost blew it at the last turn. Tucker had stopped just ten feet away, in front of a door. Two others were standing there with him. Quinn pulled back before any of them could see him.
If they exchanged any words, Quinn couldn’t hear them. What he did hear, though, was the door opening, and the men passing through. Once the door closed, he peeked around again.
The corridor was empty. He waited a moment to see if they were coming right back out, then stepped around the corner and approached the door. Like the others he had passed, it appeared solid. There was a small, faded metal sign attached to the wall next to the door. Etched in it were the words: HOLDING CELLS.
Looked like he’d found where they’d taken Furuta.
Quinn glanced around. There were several other doors along this stretch of corridor. He approached the one that was directly opposite and placed his ear against it. He could hear nothing. As he started to open the door, he heard a muffled gunshot behind him. Then another.
He yanked the door in front of him open, hoping he’d find an empty room. It was a small space. Big enough only for the built-in desk and metal bunk missing a mattress at the other end. A guard’s room that didn’t look like it had been used since the base had been decommissioned.
Quinn ducked inside and closed the door, sealing himself in darkness. He was there less than a minute when he heard another shot.
“Nate, can you read me?” he said.
Dead air.
“Nate?”
“I can hear you,” Nate said. The signal was weak.
“Okay. Stand by. I might need your help.”
“Copy that.”
The sound of a door opening into the corridor kept Quinn from saying anything else. He leaned forward, listening.
“You two go help Mr. Rose.” It was Tucker again. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes. Want to check in with the gate first.”
There was a grunt of assent, then the clacking of feet on the metal floor walking away. By the sound of it, they were heading back in the direction Quinn and the man had come.
“Unfriendlies heading your way,” Quinn said. “Keep your head down.”
“Copy that,” Nate said.
Quinn knew every second counted. If Furuta was injured, he would need immediate attention. Still, Quinn waited a full minute before he opened the door and stepped back into the hallway.
He hesitated at the door to the holding cells, knowing there was a possibility someone was stationed inside. He tightened his grip on his gun, then pressed down on the lever and opened the door.
Inside was a short hallway with three doors down the left side, but no sentry. Quinn stepped through and closed the door behind him.
There were numbers painted on each of the doors: 1, 2, and 3. Cells, Quinn knew. There were no locks, because none were needed. The way the doors latched would keep anyone inside from being able to get out.
He unlatched door number one and pulled it open.
Right on the first try.
Furuta lay in the middle of the floor, a bloody mess. His knees had both been blown out. He had another injury, too, but Quinn couldn’t see where it was at first. Somewhere on his torso or arms. His shirt was soaked with
