62

ALLIE AND THE TWO SWIMMERS (WHOM SHE HAD LEARNED WERE NAMED Mitch and Ed) huddled behind a stack of crates in a warehouse beside Deep Seven’s dock. They had run into the warehouse when brilliant lights came on a few minutes after the two men called the police on Allie’s cell phone. The lights topped lamp posts built into a tall security fence that completely surrounded Deep Seven’s dock and a collection of dockside buildings. The fence looked like something from a maximum-security prison. It was at least ten feet high, topped with razor wire, and had signs inscribed with bright red lightning bolts and skulls.

The nearest gate—the one Allie had come through—was fifty yards away on the other side of a noon-bright obstacle course of rusted metal and sharp-edged shadows. Worse, the gate had clanged shut when the lights came on. There was a number pad next to the gate, but without the pass code, that wouldn’t do them much good.

Allie thought about suggesting that they swim to safety as soon as Ed and Mitch had warmed up enough, but then she looked through her night-vision binoculars and saw two men on the ship sweeping the shore with similar binoculars.

Fear prickled down her back as she noticed something else: what looked like a SWAT team crossing the gangway from ship to shore. They carried assault rifles and wore bulky dark clothing that looked like it covered body armor. Their helmets had complicated eyepieces that she assumed were designed to help them see enemies in dark, cluttered places like the warehouse.

The helpless, unreasoning panic of a trapped animal seized her. Do something! Do something! it shouted. But what?

Maybe Connor or Julian had come up with something. She took her cell phone out of her purse and checked her messages, cupping her hands around it to hide the light from the screen.

“Anything?” asked the taller man, whose name was Mitch.

She shook her head. “Not since my lawyer—ex-lawyer— told me to call 911. The detective isn’t picking up at all. Don’t know who else to try.”

“Don’t try anyone,” whispered the short, squat man, whose name Allie had learned was Ed. “Your phone lights up like a little searchlight every time you touch it.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Not careful enough.” He pointed to a tiny spot of light dancing on the warehouse wall next to them.

“It’s not doing us any good anyway.” She snapped her phone shut and shoved it to the bottom of her purse, under wads of receipts and notes, her lipstick, and her pepper spray.

Pepper spray. She took it out and looked at it in the near darkness. Was there anything she could do with this? She thought for a moment, then rolled her eyes. Yeah, she was going to mace half a dozen commandos. That would work. She’d be better off trying the lipstick. At least that had gotten her someplace with the last male Deep Seven employee she had met.

Her eyes went wide. Rajiv! Did she still have his cell phone number? She dug through her purse with frantic fingers. There! A crumpled Post-It matted with lint on the gummy strip.

A metallic screech echoed through the warehouse and a door at the far end opened. One figure peeked in. A second later six men ran through the door, each silhouetted for an instant against the cold merciless glare of the lights on the security fence. Then they vanished into the darkness inside.

Allie took out her phone and dialed fast, keeping the light as hidden as possible.

Ed tried to grab it from her. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

She batted away his hand. “Getting help!”

One ring and Rajiv’s voice was in her ear. “Hello?”

“Rajiv, it’s Allie Whitman,” she whispered. “I really need your help.”

“Ah, certainly, Allie. Of course. What seems to be the problem?”

“Long story, but I’m trapped in a warehouse on Deep Seven’s dock in Oakland. I need the code for the gate in the security fence.”

The phone was silent for several seconds. “All right… okay,” he said at last. “I’m not in the office. Let me try accessing the system remotely. This may take a little while.”

“Please hurry.” She peeked between two crates and glimpsed a dark figure methodically checking possible hiding places about halfway across the warehouse. “I’m, uh, late for something. I’ll be really, um, grateful if you can get me the code fast.”

“My pleasure, I assure you. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to be free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Sure. My treat.” She couldn’t see the figure anymore. How soon before one of the searchers reached them? A minute? Five minutes?

“Nonsense! I insist on paying.”

“Okay, fine. Do you have the code?”

“Do you mind if I put down the phone so I can type with both hands?”

“No, no. Please do.”

“I don’t wish to be rude.”

Allie fought back the urge to scream. “Really, it’s totally, completely fine. Put it down now.”

There was a rattling noise as he put the phone on some hard surface, followed by the intermittent faint clatter of a computer keyboard. She could hear Rajiv muttering to himself and humming a Britney Spears tune.

Seconds dragged by, each weighted down with unbearable tension. If she knew how to pray, she would.

A scuffing noise and the sound of footsteps nearby. Ed leaned close to her other ear. “We gotta get outta here!”

She nodded. There was a door about twenty feet away that stood ajar. The three of them crept toward it, darting from the stack of crates to a row of barrels to a pile of pipe—whatever offered cover.

They were outside! They stood in the white glare of the naked high-wattage bulbs, exposed and blinded. Allie shielded her eyes and blinked until the painful brilliance began to resolve into recognizable shapes.

She grabbed Ed’s arm and pointed toward the gate. They ran toward it, squinting and half stumbling.

She held the phone to her mouth. “Rajiv!” Nothing. They’d be spotted in seconds if she didn’t get that code. “Rajiv! ”

Clattering noise. “Yes, what is it, Allie?”

“Do you have the code?”

“Almost… one moment.”

They were at the gate now. She stopped and looked back as Ed and Mitch caught up. No pursuit. Yet.

More humming and typing in her ear, then, “Ah, here we are. The code is 2583. Did you get that?”

“Yeah, 2583.” She punched in the numbers as she spoke. “Thanks, Rajiv. I owe—”

A clanging alarm cut her off. It hammered in her ears and in her skull.

She yanked at the gate, but the rubber-coated handle wouldn’t budge. She punched in the numbers again, hit the pound sign, and pulled the handle a second time.

Ed cursed and pointed back toward the warehouse. “Here they come!”

“Rajiv! The gate won’t open! What do I do?”

He said something she couldn’t hear over the alarm.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“You are going to die. Truly I am sorry.”

An awful empty space opened in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“You asked what happened to Franklin Roh. You’re about to find out.”