True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(37)
Ronnie waved them over. “Come with me if you want to live.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Oh no,” Margo said. “I am not going into an underground bunker with an insane chronic masturbator.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Ian asked.
“That is not a reasonable basis for making decisions.”
“It’s all I’ve got.” He tossed her the car keys and she caught them. “Thank you for everything. I wouldn’t have survived this long without you. I hope you make it.”
Ian walked to the hatch, feeling her eyes on his back. He knew what she was thinking because he’d thought it himself. If she didn’t go into the bunker, she’d be on her own, running from assassins, with nowhere to go and only a jar of coins to fund her journey. It wasn’t a great alternative to the one that Ronnie offered.
“I’m done being an author escort,” Margo said in frustration and caught up to him as he reached the opening to the bunker. She held the keys out to him.
“You can keep them,” Ian said. “I’m not going anywhere without you, not until I know you’ll be safe.”
She smiled and he thought he saw genuine warmth behind it. “You better not, or I’ll kill you myself. You’re the reason I’m in this fucking mess.”
She dropped the keys in her purse. Ian went down the steps first, Margo right behind him. Ronnie brought up the rear, closing the hatch behind them. LED lights automatically switched on, illuminating a heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs. It looked like the entrance to a bank vault. Ronnie knocked on it. The door sounded thick.
“This is an airtight, military-grade blast door. Nothing can get through it, not man nor microbe.” Ronnie typed a code into a keypad on the wall. There was a loud clank as a bolt retracted inside the door. He spun the hatch wheel, pulled the thick door open, and ushered them in with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome to my home away from home.”
The bunker was tubular, with white corrugated-metal walls. It looked to Ian like they were stepping into a buried submarine that had been furnished like a motor home. The first space was a family room with hardwood floors and rugs. A leather couch and matching recliners faced a flat-screen TV mounted on a stacked stone wall that added a rustic touch. Ian had a strong sense of déjà vu even though he’d never been in an underground bunker before.
The family room opened onto a kitchen with high-end appliances, oak cabinetry, granite countertops, a subway-tile backsplash, and a built-in dining table with upholstered bench seats. At the far end of the kitchen, a watertight door with a hatch wheel led to more rooms beyond.
“I hate to admit it,” Margo said, “but this is pretty cool.”
Ian realized why it looked familiar and turned to Ronnie. “Isn’t this the same interior as your trailer on Hollywood & the Vine?”
“Yes, it is. That’s when I first started designing this. Interior design isn’t one of my gifts but I knew I liked my trailer.” Ronnie pulled the heavy door closed, spinning the hatch wheel to lock it. “The shelter is seventy-five feet long, constructed of high-gauge steel encased in concrete and buried twenty feet below the ground. It’s fully self-contained—safe from nuclear fallout, chemical attack, or biological warfare—and stocked with enough supplies to sustain four people for five years or one person for two decades.”
Ian couldn’t imagine spending five days locked in here without seeing daylight. Five years would be unbearable.
“Was this a submarine?” Ian asked.
“Nope, but it has a lot in common with one,” Ronnie said. “All it’s missing are the engine, propellers, and torpedoes.”
“Where’s the periscope?”
“Right here, smart-ass.” Ronnie flicked a switch on the wall and the flat-screen monitor came on. The high-definition image was broken into quarters and showed the compound above from four angles, two from high cameras hidden in the hills.
“These are only some of my cameras. I’ve got complete surveillance of my domain. We’ll know if a jackrabbit shows up.” Ronnie went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and put a roll of aluminum foil on the counter. “Wrap your driver’s licenses with this.”
“Okeydoke” Margo said, digging her license out of her purse. “But I draw the line at wrapping my head with it.”
“Me too,” Ian said.
“We’ll see,” Ronnie said.
That sounded ominous to Ian, but not as scary as facing more CIA assassins. Ian and Margo each took a strip of foil and wrapped their licenses.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Reseda, California. Eight Years Ago.
EXT. FOREST—DAY
Hollywood and Vine, their guns drawn and wearing Kevlar vests, move cautiously through the trees. Hollywood goes from tree to tree, using them for cover but Vine is walking out in the open. This frustrates Hollywood.
HOLLYWOOD
There are two neo-Nazi killers somewhere in these woods with the loot they robbed from CalNorth Bank.
VINE
I know why we’re here.
HOLLYWOOD
Then what the hell are you doing strolling out in the open? You might as well have a target painted on your chest.