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“Ready?” she asked, lifting the clasp.
“Always.”
She pushed the lever to the side, which squeaked like a wounded animal in spite of the lubricant, and then ducked inside. Sam listened for any hint of a patrol but didn’t hear anything, and then felt his phone vibrate as Remi called from inside.
“Not good. There’s a cam here in the hallway by the door, so I’m busted. Time to engage Plan B. Lock it up and get out of there. We’ll rendezvous as we agreed.”
“Nope. Change of plans. I’m coming with you.”
“Sam, they’ve got me on camera. Any second now, there will be soldiers on their way. I don’t have time to argue.”
“Then don’t. Is there a way to lock the barrier from the inside?”
A moment of silence greeted him, and then Remi’s hushed voice from his phone: “Yes. A clasp. Like on your side.”
“See you in a second. You better get moving on the vault door. I’m hoping all your lock-picking practice will pay off.”
Sam pulled the door open and edged through. He closed it again quickly and slid the padlock into the clasp, snapping it shut. With any luck, it would hold the guards for a little while—the barrier looked strong even if it had been designed only to keep tourists out rather than fortify the corridor. And, as with all security doors, it opened outward, so you’d have to kick the whole frame in, not just the door. He guessed the Cubans wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to shoot their way through it because of the danger of ricocheting bullets.
The hallway was gloomy, a single incandescent bulb in a caged fixture providing dim illumination. Sam hurried to where Remi was on her knees in front of the vault door. He moved past her and stopped beneath the ceiling camera, fishing in his backpack until he found a can of black spray paint. After peering at the mirrored globe, he popped the top off and hit the camera with a burst.
“They’re blind now. How’s it coming?”
“It’s not as complicated as I thought. Should have it open in a second,” Remi answered. They heard running boots at the far end of the corridor on the opposite side of the barrier, followed by a crashing from the heavy iron slab as the guards tried to demolish it.
“Now might be a really good time to open the door, Remi.”
“I’m almost there,” she whispered between gritted teeth, and brushed the first makeshift pick lightly against the posts inside the lock as she applied pressure with the second pick she’d fashioned from a bobby pin. Sam had been dubious of the simple tools she’d created until she’d demonstrated her abilities with them by opening their locked hotel door in fifteen seconds, at which point he’d decided that it was time for a little more faith in his wife’s talents.
“We’re in,” Remi whispered as the dead bolt clicked open with a twist, and she stood. “Ready?”
More slamming echoed from the metal door, accompanied by shouts and the blow of rifle stocks against it.
“You go. I’ll wait out here and deal with the light. I don’t want them getting any ideas about shooting down the corridor if they can punch a hole in the iron.”
As she pushed the door open, a Klaxon siren blared. They’d discussed the possibility of an alarm, either silent or audible, but it was still jarring. Sam stuffed foam earplugs in place as he hurried to the lamp. When he was directly beneath it, he took the paint again and sprayed the bulb and soon the hallway was pitch-black, the only light coming from a distant ventilation slit in the ten-foot-thick walls.
A gunshot exploded from the barrier, followed by a scream and yelled instructions. Apparently, the soft lead bullet hadn’t penetrated; judging by the commotion on the other side, it had hit one of the guards, which would hopefully dampen their enthusiasm for more gunfire.
The crashing resumed within ten seconds, this time steel on steel. Sam’s guess that the fire axes he’d seen in cases around the fort would come into play had been a good one. He had no illusions that the door would be able to stand up to a sustained assault. He crept along the passage back to the vault.
“Are you done?” Sam shouted through the vault doorway, momentarily blinded by the flash of Remi’s digital camera.
“Almost! Three more shots and we’re out of here,” she yelled back at him, the siren drowning out her voice as she continued to take pictures.
A beam of light appeared from the barrier. They’d pierced it. It would be only a matter of seconds until the shooting started.
“They’re through. Let’s go. Now!” Sam called. Remi didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the far end of the passageway, where they knew from the blueprint there would be a curve and then a junction. He prayed that the diagram was accurate and that a bright mind hadn’t decided to seal their escape route at some point over the last forty years—that could ruin their night.
Sam reached the junction just as gunfire erupted behind them. Slugs whistled through the air, whining as they glanced off the stone walls and ricocheted in every direction. Both he and Remi dropped and crawled the remaining five feet, setting a new record for military-style scrambling. The gunfire continued until the shooter exhausted his clip.
Sam pointed at a dark chamber fifteen feet away and inched toward it, sticking to the floor in the event of a stray bullet bouncing off the rock walls. After what seemed like forever, they reached the doorway. The air was a bouquet of rot and decay, but also the most welcome odor in the world—salt air. From the far side of the room the crash of waves breaking against the rocks below the castle’s foundation greeted them and they both leapt to their feet and felt their way toward the sound.
There, at floor level, were three chutes that opened out onto the sea, barely large enough to accommodate a human body. The iron bars imbedded in the stone had been mostly eaten away by the elements. Sam pulled a penlight from his pocket and then reached into his bag and extracted a tire iron and rope. He swung the beam around the room in search of anything to tie the line to. There—a stone sink sat at the far end of the small space, attached to the wall. He quickly wound the end of the rope around it several times before fashioning a climber’s knot and giving it a firm pull.
“Let me break the bars, and, when I’m through, follow me down,” Sam instructed. He lowered himself to the cold stone floor, the surface slick from condensation and mold, and slid down the chute, arms first, playing out rope with his left hand, the crowbar gripped in his right.
The ir
