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Sam pushed the cart over and the heavy monitor landed on the stone floor with an explosive crash, buying Remi critical moments for her eyes to fully adjust. The gunman froze at the unexpected commotion fifteen feet from where he thought the threat lay, exposing himself for an instant.
Which was all the opportunity Remi needed. She fired two more times, emptying the revolver. The gunman slumped over and his gun clattered harmlessly to the floor. Sam moved from behind the cart to where the first two islanders lay dead by the door and groped around until his fingers found one of their guns—another revolver.
“See if you can find the other pistol,” Sam whispered to Remi. “I’m going to get the door open so we can use Leonid’s flashlight. After this, we’ve lost any element of surprise.”
“Okay,” Remi agreed, moving cautiously toward the sound of his voice.
Sam worked the bolt free and swung the door wide as Remi neared. Lazlo and Leonid were crouched inside. “Time for your flashlight,” Sam told Leonid, who switched it on.
Remi located the other gun, a Beretta 9mm semiautomatic, and scooped it up. She quickly checked the magazine, which was full, as Sam retrieved a fallen flashlight. She felt in the gunman’s shorts for a spare and noted without emotion that the dead man was the lead islander who’d captured them, the one who had brutalized Sam’s head with the same weapon she now held.
Now that there was light in the cell, they could see the extent of Leonid’s injuries. Sam didn’t react to the Russian’s appearance, but his stomach tightened when he saw the patchwork of scabs and cuts covering his face and arms. It was a minor miracle Leonid had managed to recover from his spill into the chasm, but he was clearly the worse for wear and every visible inch of skin sported a contusion or scrape.
Lazlo followed Sam and Leonid out of the cell and moved to where the third gunman’s weapon lay near his dead hand. Lazlo leaned over and picked it up, distaste written across his face, and held it out to Leonid. “I suspect you might be able to make more productive use of this than I,” he said. Leonid took the revolver without comment and quickly checked the cylinder.
“Only two rounds,” he said, then grunted and directed the beam at the cave entry. “Who wants to take the lead
?”
“I will,” Sam said, but Remi shook her head.
“You’re hurt. I’ll do it. Leonid, give me your flashlight.”
Leonid nodded and handed her the light. Sam looked ready to challenge her, but she cut him off with a determined look. “No arguments, Fargo. I’ve got the most firepower with the automatic. Back me up.” She glanced at Lazlo. “Give him a hand, would you please?”
Remi shone the light around the chamber and froze when a moan drifted from another doorway—which was bolted shut. They moved to the heavy door and Sam pulled loose from Lazlo, a determined expression on his face. Remi stood by the side of the door, pistol at the ready, as Sam worked the bolt loose.
They exchanged a glance and Sam nodded. He swung the door wide as Remi aimed into the darkness, Sam shining his beam into the gloom. When no attack came, he took a cautious step toward the threshold, and then another moan came from inside the chamber.
It sounded like a girl.
“What on earth . . .” Remi whispered as she moved into the cavern. She scanned the interior with her light, holding the pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, and then gasped when her beam settled on one of a dozen beds along the wall. A figure lay prone there, one thin arm shackled to a chain dangling from the stone wall.
Sam played his beam along the surface, where manacles hung from rusting chains clasped to iron rings. In one corner, an iron box stood open and he shuddered when he saw what it was—a coffin-shaped contrivance just large enough to imprison a human. Next to it stood a metal cage backed against the wall, its surface grooved from hands scratching at the stone in a futile effort to get free. Rust-colored streaks ran down the wall and again Sam shuddered—it was dried blood, some of it probably decades old, but enough of it relatively fresh to send chills up his spine.
Remi moved to the bed, where a young female islander was laboring for breath. Empty IV bags littered the stone floor, along with discarded syringes and medicine vials. A cockroach scuttled near Remi’s foot and she grimaced.
“It’s . . . it’s like some kind of medieval torture chamber,” she murmured.
“I think we’ve found where the Japanese did their dirty work,” Sam agreed, leaning over to examine the girl. He touched her forehead and looked at Remi. “She’s burning up.”
“We have to take her with us, Sam.”
He took a deep breath and nudged the girl’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
She moaned again, a pitiful sound filled with pain and fear, and her eyes fluttered open. Her gaze was unfocused as it settled on Remi.
“Sweetheart . . . Do you understand me?” Remi asked quietly.
The girl managed a weak nod.
“We’re going to get you out of here. What’s your name?”
She struggled to form a word, and both Sam and Remi leaned closer in an effort to make it out.
“Lil . . . ly . . .”
Sam stepped away from the bed and Remi joined him. “She’s too sick to walk, Remi.”
