City of Saints & Thieves(10)

My breath catches. Not because of the guards but because there is a camera in the office.

I am frozen to the spot, watching the screen.

A camera.

Recording everything. But it must not transmit like the other CCTVs to the guard station. It, like the tunnel, doesn’t show up on any of the plans or security documents Boyboy hacked. How long has it been there? Was it there five years ago? A camera. I’m practically paralyzed thinking about what it might have recorded.

Michael pushes another button on the screen and we have audio. I see a guard check behind the desk, coming in so close to the camera that his face fills the screen. I can hear him breathing. Is he going to open the door? The face recedes, blind to us. The men stand around for a little while looking confused, and then one of them says something into his radio about a false alarm and waves the crew back out.

“They won’t look here?” I ask.

“No.”

Michael scrolls back through the footage until he gets to the part where he first found me. He presses some buttons and I see the words ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE? His finger hovers for a second before he finally pushes YES, and then he quickly switches the screen off.

“Why wouldn’t they look here?”

“They don’t know about it.” He nods down the stairs. “Walk.”

With a growing feeling that the walls are pressing in on me, I start down. He hasn’t tied my hands or anything; he just has the gun. I’m not sure whether I should try making a run for it or risk waiting to see what happens next. Where is he taking me? A dungeon? Some sicko Big Man torture chamber? I wouldn’t put it past his dad to have one.

As my mind goes to dark places, Michael suddenly says, “Where have you been?” in such a raw voice that it startles me.

“I . . .” There’s no way I’m telling him I’ve been living rough on a rooftop for five years. “. . . Around.”

He is silent. We keep walking.

Finally he asks, “In Sangui?”

I shrug. “Where else?”

“It’s been five years, Tina. Nothing. Not a word. And then, out of nowhere, here you are.”

I don’t answer. His tone is bitter, but what am I supposed to tell him? Sorry I didn’t hang out after my mom got murdered? Also, dude has a gun stuck in my back. I don’t really feel the need to be polite. “Where are you taking me?” I ask instead, but he doesn’t answer either.

At the bottom of the stairs, the tunnel stretches out before us. I count four doors before we stop in front of one. It has a bolt that locks from the outside, a peephole, and a slot for passing things through. Standard torture chamber stuff. He opens it and nudges me inside with the gun barrel.

Inside the room it feels like the ceiling is pressing down on me, but I force myself to look around and take in as much as I can. It’s windowless and probably soundproof, but as far as torture chambers go, I guess it could be worse. There’s a cot and a table, a chair and a toilet and a sink. No tools to rip fingernails out that I can see.

Michael picks a chain up off the floor. It has handcuffs attached to the end and he ratchets me in.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, trying to sound tough. I don’t want to think about who else has been in these handcuffs. The chain is fastened to a bolt in the wall. There’s a little drain in the center of the room, like you might need to hose the whole place down.

“I’m going up to talk to the guards. I’ll be back.”

I eye him warily. And then what? I want to ask. But Michael is already out the door. After it closes behind him, I hear the bolt sliding home, loud and final.

For a few moments it’s just me and the sound of my own breath. I make for the door, but the chain yanks me back several meters short. I stand staring at the peephole, chest heaving, willing my panic to stay way down in my stomach where it belongs.

My phone buzzing in my sleeve makes me jump.

“You shouldn’t have called!” I say, when I manage to get it to my ear. “He only just left me alone!”

“I can see him—cameras upstairs—” Boyboy says. “Where—at?”

I am ridiculously relieved to hear Boyboy’s voice, however faintly and broken up. A camera. There’s a secret camera in Mr. G’s office, I want to shout to him, but I’ve got other problems to deal with first. “I’m in a room under the mansion.”

I hear shuffling. “—not on—house plan, Tiny,” Ketchup’s voice whines, like it’s somehow my fault.

“No shit,” I say. “Torture chambers tend not to be.”

“—what?”

“Nothing. What is Michael doing? Does it look like he’s telling the guards about me?”

“Let me——on it.”

While Boyboy’s checking, Bug Eye asks, “You—cool, Tiny Girl?” Even if I don’t hear exactly what he’s said, I know it’s not a question; it’s an order.

“Yeah.”

“Dammit, Tiny——gonna get caught?—Should have never—you—and—shoga friend—”

“Shut up, Ketchup,” Bug Eye says. “—not——fault.”

Ketchup continues to pout. “I——the kids were supposed—Switzerland or some—”