The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(49)

All right, time to turn around . . . Wait. Is that a light ahead?

Snap-judgment time. It’s a hundred feet back to the grille, and there’s a light ten feet ahead. What do you do?

The smart thing is to go back to the boat and have Solar call the police.

Then why am I swimming toward the light?

Dumb girl. Dumb, dumb girl.

The passage’s ceiling has changed from concrete to metal. It feels like corrugated aluminum.

I slide under the gap in the ceiling from which the light is emanating. It’s from a bulb overhead, which I can see through a grated cover.

This is some kind of underground loading dock.

I push against the metal grate. It gives only a little. Through a gap on one side, I see a chain crossing the hatch. They lock this from above.

What the hell are they afraid of? The Creature from the Black Lagoon sneaking inside?

I push again. It barely moves.

My lungs are screaming. I really need to start carrying around an emergency oxygen tank strapped to my leg—or move to the desert.

Okay, think. It’s about 120 feet from here to the opening—which I have to squeeze through. Past a bloated corpse.

I just gagged and lost a mouthful of air. No time to think. Do something.

This tunnel is, what? Five feet tall?

I push against the roof and extend my legs to the bottom. Yep. Five feet.

Plant your feet, spread your hands. Push, bitch! Push!

My thighs explode as I try to move the heavens and earth at the same time.

I’m beginning to gag. My reptile brain is telling me to open my mouth.

PUSH!

Crack.

The metal door gives way and flies upward as the chain breaks.

My head surfaces, and I grab a mouthful of air, then the metal door slams back down on my head, knocking me back underwater.

Fucking gravity.

Stars.

Pain.

Get out.

I push the door up again and drag myself out of the tunnel, flopping onto the opened door . . . and feel something slice into my leg. I gasp for air, trying not to black ou—





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

KEEL

My head hits the trapdoor as I roll onto it, and salt water sloshes into my mouth. I taste my own blood.

I glance down at my leg—there’s a narrow red gash where the edge of the grate sliced into it. It’s not too deep, just long.

I’m in the bottom of a concrete pit that rises at least four feet above me. I could easily climb out if I wasn’t feeling so woozy, but I have enough trouble pushing myself upright.

Something cold and metal touches my back, and I’m jolted with adrenaline. I turn around and find a chain hanging from an overhead lift.

I grasp it and start to pull myself out of the pit. After a few seconds of climbing and wincing, I roll onto the cold concrete floor of the bay.

At least I’m not going to drown. I start to stand, and my foot slips in my own blood. If I don’t fix that, I’ll bleed out.

The bay above the pit is spartan and about the size of a one-car garage.

This is where Bonaventure keeps his cargo before loading it into the Kraken . . .

This is where I’m going to die if I don’t fix my leg.

At the far end, next to the stairs leading out of here, there’s a row of metal shelves. I stumble over, look through a cardboard box, and find a white T-shirt.

It takes me a couple of attempts to tear the hem, but I manage to rip it open and use the fabric as an impromptu bandage on my gash.

The bleeding slows to a trickle, and I feel comfortable enough to walk and find out what’s at the top of the stairs.

While I’m afraid it might lead directly to Bonaventure’s guards, there’s no way in hell I’m going back the way I came. My best chance of survival is to make a run for the nearest exit.

Hopefully they’re watching for people sneaking in, not escaping.

As I’m about to go up, I notice an odd panel on the wall. I slide it open and find a foot-wide tunnel of plastic pipe that extends up and down out of my sight. No time to inspect that. I have to keep moving.

Thankful for handrails, I take the steps slowly. There’s no light in the corridor, only the glow from the overhead light in the bay. At the top of the stairs I see a faint line at what seems to be the bottom of a door.

I reach the last step and put my ear to the door. Silence. Maybe there’s a chance after all?

If I make it to the street, there’s no way Bonaventure’s guards are going to risk getting caught on camera dragging me back here. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The question foremost in my mind is how the hell did the feds miss an entire submarine bay under the man’s house? You’d think they might notice something like this.

I turn the knob slowly and pull the door toward me after realizing that it doesn’t push.

Inside is another dark room. This one is the size of a closet and has a giant water heater in the middle, blocking the way out.

All right . . . ?

There’s no way I can squeeze my body around it. What’s going on?

Let’s think this through . . . Bonaventure doesn’t want people looking for the bathroom accidentally stumbling into his secret submarine lair. You’d put something in front of it—like a giant water heater. That means it probably moves . . .

I wrap my arms around the base of the cylinder and lift, twisting as I strain. Some kind of release lever clicks, and the whole contraption rises into the ceiling and stays there.