The Masked Truth(17)

Max slips to the door, lighting his way. He holds up his finger and I see his lips move, counting to five, then he cracks it open and waves at me, still crouched behind the mops. I steady myself and follow.

We make our way to the front door. Footwear off—that was my idea, after hearing X-Files’s and Predator’s shoes squeaking and thumping. We move in stockinged feet to the main hall and then down it, Max walking backward behind me, both of us listening as X-Files and Predator pursue the remaining captives.

Remaining captives.

Maria is dead. Maybe Lorenzo too. That’s not what I meant by “remaining,” but as soon as I think the word I see Maria, lying on the floor, not moving, and that smell … Maybe there was no smell, maybe it’s my memory of the Porters, but I still remember it with Maria, the stink of blood and urine and more, the smell of violent death. I can tell myself she’s alive, but I know she isn’t.

I stop running. Max bumps into me and turns with a whispered “What do you hear?” as he leans around and then sees my expression.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters as he takes my shoulders and propels me forward. “Keep those legs moving, Riley. You can do this.”

I want to throw him off. To shout at him. Why does he care, anyway? I’m suddenly furious at that care, at the burden of it. You don’t know me. You shouldn’t give a damn. Get yourself out. Hell, throw me at them for a diversion. I don’t care.

Except I do care. I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Haven’t even glimpsed it. As dark as the world gets some days, I still see solid ground under my feet, and I don’t wish for anything else. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk Max’s life with mine. He’s decided to rescue me, and maybe that’s what keeps him moving. Something to focus on, to forget what we left behind in that room.

I pay little attention to my surroundings as we run. There’s emergency lighting in the halls, which are builder-beige with equally nondescript flooring. What matters is the path I need to take. Down this hall and then turn left to the end, turn right and the door will be there. Freedom will be there.

We get around the corner. The exit door is just ahead. I’m reaching out, as if I can grab the knob from ten feet away. Then I see the keyhole.

The door is locked. It must be. A locked solid steel door. I slow, and Max passes me, and I think maybe he didn’t notice the lock. But when he yanks on the door and it doesn’t open, his expression isn’t shock—it’s disappointment. He saw the keyhole—he just hoped maybe Predator forgot to relock it after releasing Sandy. Did he really think the SWAT team wouldn’t have checked?

He bends to examine the lock.

“Unless you smuggled picks past the metal detector …” I say.

He runs his fingers over the hinges.

“Or a screwdriver,” I say.

He gives me a look to say I’m not helping. It isn’t an angry look. Not even an annoyed one. Just a quick glance and a shake of his head before he goes back to examining the door.

“You’re wasting time,” I say. “We need to search for another exit.”

“One they forgot to lock?”

“I’m not the one who checked this one.”

“I’d be daft if I didn’t.”

“Then we’d be daft if we didn’t search for another way out.”

“That’s plan B,” he says.

“And plan A? Blow up the door?”

“You brought dynamite? Brilliant.” He smiles, and somehow I hate that smile more than if he’d scowled. The smile says he’s got this under control. No, not he. We. It says we can handle this, together. There’s no arrogance in that smile, and I wish there was, because it’s a smile of something worse: faith.

He puts his ear to the door.

“What are you—?” I stop. “Right. The SWAT team.”

Now I get a roll of his eyes. Of course. The SWAT team is out there. All we have to do is let them know we’ve escaped. Communicate … through a solid steel door.

When I mention that part, Max only says, “We just need to let them know we’re in here. They can figure out the rest. I don’t hear anything, so the door must be thick. We’ll need to bang on it to get their attention.”

“And get the attention of X-Files and Predator too?”

He frowns, and I say, “I mean our captors. The masks. They’re from—”

“Ah, right. Predator. That’s a film. I thought I recognized it. I was calling the other Gray. Yes, I suspect they’ll hear us, but it’s more important to let the people outside hear us.”

“Knock on the door and then run.”

A flashed smile. “You’ve got it. Head that way”—he points—“and find a route for us to flee the scene.”





CHAPTER 8


There’s a long corridor at the other end of the hall, with several shorter ones branching off, giving us options for an escape route. I signal Max while listening for our captors. He whales on the door and I hear only a muffled thump.

He puts his ear to the door again. I start toward him, but he lifts his hand to warn me back, while pantomiming that he can hear faint sounds outside the door.

I try to visualize what’s happening out there. I’ve seen hostage-takings in movies and on TV, often with my dad beside me, pointing out everything that Hollywood did wrong, and I’d ask how it really worked, and Mom and Sloane would shush us, but afterward I’d ask Dad again because I knew he couldn’t talk about his actual work, not really, and this gave him a way to share his job, and I think he appreciated that.