She nods. “He’s that guy that lives across the street from the lab? The one who refuses to give the place up.”
“Last house on the block.” Charade smirks.
“Isn’t he a little”—she gestures, like running her hands through the air will help her pick out the right word to say—“off.”
“He’s old and lonely. He watches out for us.”
“And you watch out for him.”
One corner of Charade’s mouth rises. “He said some lights are on at the lab. Maintenance probably forgot to turn them off when they left. One minute, then it’s off to the land of popcorn, soda, and cheesy dialogue.”
The neighborhood outside my window shifts as we drive, quickly morphing into one of those fringe places where the city meets its outskirts. The word that comes to mind is ‘vintage.’ Dusty row-style apartments as weathered as their residents and only half as sturdy run along the left side of the road. The right side features a variety of factories and businesses, all backing up to a murky, polluted river. Bridges glitter in the sky around us, lit by the hot glow of blast furnaces flaming into the night.
The lab is void of life compared to its fellows, all bleached concrete and reinforced glass as opposed to the exposed wooden beams and bay windows of the buildings around it. Charade lifts his hand in acknowledgment to a wrinkled face peeking out from behind a curtained window on the second floor of the small cottage-style home across the way.
Moira’s focus is on our target. None of the windows on this side of the building are lit up, but several of them are filled with a faint, dispersed glow. Something about it doesn’t feel right.
“Maybe we should head to the movies.” Fear tightens her voice into a higher version of itself. “We won’t know what we want to see next if we miss the previews.”
He brushes this off with a laugh, the sound not quite ringing true. “Lock the doors. I’ll be quick.”
She grabs his wrist before he can unclip his seat belt. “Let the lights stay on. You can foot that bill. Let’s just go.”
Again, he dismisses her.
“You have your phone, right?” She nods, fingers brushing lightly against one of the romper’s oversized pockets. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the police.”
Her shoulders sag, but she nods, palming her device in her lap.
I follow Charade up the long, curving cement pathway, his invisible shadow. “This is exactly how horror movies start.”
Not that it makes a difference; he can’t hear me.
He presses a code into the security pad to the right of the main doors and they glide open with a hum. The air inside is thick, humid. Don’t places like this usually have air conditioning? The sterile scent of hand sanitizer burns my nostrils, bringing back memories of hospitals and sickness. It feels oppressive in this heat, the clean of it rotting into a pervasive stench.
Doorways line the hall. Silhouettes of desks and chairs appear in some, but most are bare. It feels so empty. I turn and Charade is strolling down the hallway. I have to run to catch up. The path expands into a tall atrium with a wall made of reinforced glass. The darkened riverbank waits beyond.
Straining my ears, I think I hear something, but it’s gone too fast for me to catch.
We reach an expanse, smaller than the atrium, but open except for a few columns carving up the space. Computers whir to our left, their artificial glow lighting up a corner to the far side of the room. A doorway beyond luminates in a brilliant yellow orange outline.
The sound comes again—shuffling. And voices.
Charade slows as we near the doorway’s incandescent brightness. He ducks to the side, pressing himself flat against the wall.
“Don’t be an idiot.” I whisper. “Call the police.”
I count four men as large as linebackers. Backs to us, they pillage the office. Cardboard boxes lay in haphazard piles across the floor. Equipment lines the four corners of the room set on ancient, but clean and sturdy stainless-steel desks that float out from the wall in an ‘L’ shape. Almost half the room has been emptied already, leaving only wires and dust in its place.
Charade sprints to the next column of the wall, edging up behind me.
“What do you think you’re going to do about this?” I hiss at he passes. Each man carries a holster at his hip, the black grips glinting like a promise in the limited light. Even if he manages to get one of them under his influence, bullets are faster than persuasion.
His fingers tremble a little as they tug his phone out of his pocket. Nine—one?—
“Drop it, Zane.”
We both jump at the sound. A man leans against the already emptied metal to our left no more than a couple yards away. Though he is cloaked in darkness, he has the kind of commanding presence that demands attention. I can’t believe I didn’t see him sooner.
