I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(14)

I call Sam along the way but get no answer.

I try my best not to think about what that means, but worry for his safety continues to beat through my mind.

Eventually Briggs and I arrive at Union Station, a giant structure full of shops, restaurants and rail lines. We avoid the main entrance. Briggs ushers me through a side door and pulls an earpiece out of his pocket as we stand in an empty, narrow hallway.

“Major Briggs reporting in.” His voice is a whisper. “I’ve got the asset. Do you have a visual?”

He points to a camera mounted on the wall. Someone must respond.

“Negative,” he says. “It’s just the two of us.” He turns to me. “All rails and buses are suspended. The place should be evacuated, but I’m guessing there might still be hostiles patrolling inside. Our route won’t take us anywhere near the main lobbies, though.”

“Who are you—,” I start, but Briggs puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head twice. Somewhere down the corridor I can hear the faint echo of Mogadorian voices. They’re inside.

Briggs limps through a connecting hallway and eventually to a series of twisting staircases, hesitating only a few times to figure out where to go next, holding a finger to his earpiece and, I assume, listening to directions. I’m not sure if our path is chosen to avoid Mogadorians or if it’s just necessarily convoluted. He communicates only in hand signals, eyes constantly searching for signs of movement as we dart through the maze of behind-the-scenes hallways and rooms most people never see. Gamera follows, buzzing along as an insect, ready to shift at a moment’s notice.

Finally we come to a room that looks like some kind of suite—though based on the furniture and the avocado-colored carpet, it looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since I was a kid. Briggs finds a touch screen keypad on the wall behind a small painting of the White House. It’s the only thing that looks new in the room. He enters some code and lowers his head to stare into the pad, which must have some sort of retina sensor. The wall beside him shifts, and a series of thick steel slabs slide away, revealing a small room with a grated metal floor.

He waves me through, finally letting out a long breath as the wall slides back into place behind us. Then he flips a switch and the floor starts to move.

We’re on an elevator.

“Thank God,” he says, leaning against the wall, finally grimacing and acting like a man who’s been injured.

“This is insane,” I whisper. I can’t figure out how many flights of stairs we’ve gone down, but it seems like we’re definitely farther underground than any normal train station would be.

“There’ve been hidden tunnels and safe rooms in this building since the Truman administration. When the Cold War really started to escalate, all sorts of secret entrances and exits were added. And . . . well, let’s just say the architects got creative.”

We finally come to a stop at a small landing. There’s one door that has a sign that says “Employees Only” on it.

“That should be an unused janitor’s closet,” he says, pointing at the door. “Which means . . .”

He heads to a blank wall and starts pressing on bricks at random, muttering to himself. Finally, one of them pushes in, and a portion of the wall slides away.

He turns to me and grins.

“What’d I say? You’d be surprised what kinds of gonzo shit the government designed in the ’60s and ’70s. It’s like they were taking their cues from James Bond movies.”

The panel closes behind us as we step into what looks like a museum of old train cars—ten or so of them parked side by side in a tight row in front of us.

“What is this place?” I whisper to myself as I look around. There seems to be no other entrance or exit.

“Union Station’s top secret transport hub.” He waves at one of the cameras on the wall and then limps forward. “Good. Looks like they sent back our car. We won’t have to wait for it.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask. Even if he is a major, this seems like it should be far above his pay grade.

“There’s a small team of soldiers stationed out of a secret base here in the city. Our primary concern is the safe evacuation of assets and high-profile targets in the event of an emergency.”

He keys in a code on the side of one of the trains and a door opens. The inside is roughly as big as a single subway car but furnished like a private jet: all plush and leather.

“Incredible,” I murmur as Gamera lands on a bench and takes the form of a snapping turtle.

“You haven’t seen anything. Watch this.”

Briggs walks to the front of the car and flips a series of switches. The train shakes, and suddenly we’re sinking into the cement, until the entire car is several yards below the floor. A set of lights goes on, and I can see a track disappearing into a dark tunnel ahead of us.

“We’ll be there in an hour. Why don’t you get some sleep if you can.”

The train car starts to shoot forward, taking me off balance a little. I catch myself on the side of a seat before sinking into it.

It’s as if just by sitting down, my body gives up, ready to pass out.

While Briggs busies himself at the front of the car, I pull out my satellite phone. Whatever Adam did to it must have worked, because I get a signal.

But Sam doesn’t answer.