Edge of Black. J.T. Ellison

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Название Edge of Black
Автор произведения J.T. Ellison
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Серия
Издательство Приключения: прочее
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781408970324



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Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       THURSDAY

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Chapter 40

       Chapter 41

       Chapter 42

       Chapter 43

       Chapter 44

       Chapter 45

       Chapter 46

       Chapter 47

       Chapter 48

       Chapter 49

       Chapter 50

       FRIDAY

       Chapter 51

       Chapter 52

       Acknowledgments

      “In all men is evil sleeping;

      the good man is he who will not awaken it,

      in himself or in other men.”

      —Mary Renault

      TUESDAY

      Chapter 1

      Washington, D.C.

      A single beam of light illuminated the path ahead, hovering and bobbing against the concrete walls. The tunnel was narrowing, growing tighter across his shoulder, forcing the joints to compress, pushing on his lungs. His breath came fast. He reminded himself to calm down, inhale through his nose. The mask was making it difficult to see, to smell, anything that might give him a sense of where he was. He paused, counted the number of times his limbs had moved forward. Once, twice, three times, twenty. Roger that. Five more evolutions and he’d be in place.

      He squeezed forward, slithering like a snake along on his belly, his legs bunching up behind him, his arms forward, the Maglite in his left hand, his right feeling for the way. Slowly. Slowly.

      There. He felt the hinge. Turned it gently, sensed the cooler air blowing up into the vent from below. Reached down into his shirt and pulled out the canister. The gloves made his hands clumsy, but he couldn’t risk contact. He’d die stuck in this shaft, wedged in above the vent, stinking and rotting until someone finally sought the source of the smell.

      No one would think to look for him if he were to go missing.

      He had no one. He was alone.

      He double-checked his mask, made sure he was breathing clean. All systems go.

      The clock in his head ticked away, closing down to the final moments.

      Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

      Time.

      With sure hands, he opened the cylinder and depressed the button. The can discharged, spraying silently into the vent.

      One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

      Empty.

      He shook it lightly, but there was nothing else to release. It was done.

      He tucked the cylinder back into his shirt and started to move away. He needed to get out of the shaft and back onto the platform, all while avoiding the cameras.

      He could do it. He had faith. He’d done three dry runs, and all went according to plan.

      He moved out, reversing the slither, arms bunching, forcing his body backward until the resistance ended and he could move his shoulders and hips without constriction. The pipe grew larger, big enough that he crawled onto his knees, turned and faced the exit. He fed a mirror mount down the shaft. No one was around.

      Clear.

      He dropped lightly to the ground, took three steps to the right to make sure he didn’t accidentally get caught on film, found the metal ladder and began to climb. Higher and higher, his heart lighter and lighter. Success was his.

      Below, he felt the first blast of air that indicated a train was coming. The rumbling grew louder, the ladder began to shake. He could have sworn he heard a cough. He paused his climb, held on and breathed into his mask.

      This was a better high than you could pay for.

      The train passed below him, streaking silver in the dark, rushing the air from the vent toward the platform. He let the rumbling shake his body for a few moments, counting off again, then continued to climb. The exit would be deserted, he’d made sure of that. He had a two-minute window during the shift change to get out.

      He set the stopwatch in his head. Two minutes. Mark.

      He opened the hatch and climbed onto the deserted platform. Three steps to the right, two steps forward. He’d left his backpack in the trash receptacle. He worked quickly. The mask, canister and gloves went into a sealable plastic bag. His clothes were next: he exchanged the black running suit for jeans and a white cotton T-shirt, pulled on yellow Timberlands. He used hand sanitizer on his arms to eliminate any traces that might have been left behind.

      He zippered the bag, tossed it on his shoulder and started walking.