I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(16)

“It’s a long story.”

I watch him dial, carefully, his fingers hesitating over each button. He holds the phone up to his ear for a long time before finally handing it back to me, shaking his head.

“I’m sure she’s all right,” I say, knowing full well what a useless assurance this is.

The train starts to slow. Briggs gets to his feet. “She’s a tough old broad. I’m sure she’s fine. Say, can I get my gun back? They’re kind of particular about who has weapons down here.”

I hand the pistol over. He limps a bit as he positions himself in front of the car’s sliding door. The brakes screech, and we come to a final stop. He stretches, gritting his teeth as he puts weight on his injured leg.

“I hope they’ve got a solid med staff here. And hot water.”

Gamera shrinks down to an insect again and hops on my shoulder as I stand beside Briggs.

“And coffee,” I say. “Wait, is this your first time here?”

“In person, yeah. But I know the schematics like the back of my hand, so I pretty much know what to expect.”

The door slides open, and the first thing I see are five guys in dark suits all pointing machine guns at my face.

Briggs doesn’t flinch at the sight of the weapons. I, on the other hand, jump and raise my hands in the air.

“Major Samuel Briggs,” a man in black says as he steps forward. Briggs nods. The man holds some kind of small electronic device up to Briggs’s eyes and then has him place his fingers on an electronic tablet. He must pass whatever this test is, because the man motions for Briggs to come out of the train car.

“This is the asset, Malcolm Goode,” Briggs says as he steps between the men. None of them turns his gun off me. “He’s cleared. I’ve disarmed him.”

Despite this, one of the suited men steps forward and pats me down. He holds my satellite phone out to the guy who seems to be in charge, but he just shakes his head.

“Won’t do him any good so far underground and with all our shielding,” he says, and my heart sinks. He continues. “Hand.”

I reach out, obliged to follow any orders at this point, and he guides my palm to the tablet. An old picture of me pops up on the screen—one I know they used in “missing” posters when I disappeared—along with some sort of record full of my information. The man pulls the tablet away before I can actually read anything.

“Welcome to Liberty Base,” he says. “I’m Deputy Chief Richards with the Secret Service. Follow me.”

“Wait. How do you have my fingerprints?” I ask, pocketing the phone the other man gives back to me and silently thanking the entire universe that the guy didn’t check for a signal on it. “What information just got pulled up?”

The man lets out a short laugh and doesn’t bother to answer the questions. Instead he turns away and starts walking towards a door on the other end of the room, which is nothing but a big concrete box. It’s only then that I notice a man in a lab coat hovering over a control panel in one corner.

“Keep the train here,” Richards says to him as we pass by. “This is the last of our guests from Union Station.”

He leads us into a narrow hallway. The walls and floors are all slate gray. Our footsteps echo through the corridor. Briggs following behind me, with the gunmen bringing up the rear.

“You’re injured, Major,” Richards says without looking back. I wonder if he noticed the bandage earlier or if he can just tell from the uneven sound of Briggs’s footsteps. “We’ll wake the medical staff.”

“Where are we?” I ask.

“You’re at a secret underground bunker. That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you right now.”

He turns. Another hallway. How much time have I spent navigating underground labyrinths in the last few days? This “Liberty Base” is beginning to remind me of the sublevel of Ashwood, and it’s not exactly a comforting feeling.

“I was told the president sent for me. When will I be meeting with him? There’s a lot to discuss about the Mogadorians and who in the government—”

“It’s almost four in the morning. Everyone’s taking a two-hour break before regrouping. When you’re needed, someone will collect you.”

He stops in front of a door and swings it open. Inside is a small room with a desk and a bed covered in a blanket. A minifridge and cabinet sit between two slim doors. It’s slightly nicer than I’d expect a dorm room or cheap motel to be.

“You’ll find fresh clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom. There’s some food and water as well.”

“You brought me all the way here to put me in a room and—,” I start.

“You’ll have to forgive us for not having a gift basket and suite waiting for you, but we’re in a state of emergency, Dr. Goode. I advise you to stay in here until you’re called for. Don’t roam about the halls. I’ll keep a man posted outside your door . . . in case you need anything.”

“Wait,” I say, suddenly feeling like more of a prisoner than someone here to help the president. “You won’t tell me where I am, and I’m not supposed to leave my room? What’s going on here?”

Richards gets a slight smirk on his face.

“If you want to leave, Doctor, you can. I’ll just have a few of my men escort you to the surface and see to it that you aren’t able to find this place ever again.”