“Chief?”
“Tré.”
“Two of ’em down. One more to go.”
As Tré continued forward, Crocker wanted to utter some congratulation or encouragement, but the words wouldn’t come out. He leaned against the wall and tried to will his body forward. More gunshots echoed. Then he saw a white flash and heard the thud of something louder. The walls shook; wooden planks and dirt fell from the ceiling.
He covered his head with his hands as debris showered over him. Just when he thought he was going to be buried, it stopped. But he was trapped, cut off, blinded, and having trouble breathing. Dirt and dust clogged his mouth and nostrils.
He pulled off his shirt and tied it over his nose and mouth. Then he got up onto his hands and knees and clawed his way up a mound of dirt. A plank fell and hit his back. He pushed it aside, then felt for an opening. Finding a fist-sized hole, he burrowed his hand through, then dug around it furiously until the ends of his fingers were starting to bleed.
When the hole was three feet wide, he managed to get his left shoulder through, and pushed and squirmed until he got stuck. So he took a deep breath, pulled out, and dug some more. This time he paused a moment to gather his strength, inserted his head and shoulder, then wiggled through to the other side and rolled down the pile of rocks and dirt to the floor of the tunnel.
Crocker still had trouble breathing because the air was clogged with dust, and he was covered with scratches and dirt. Through the mist he saw a diffused light and heard a groan.
He wasn’t aware that he was moving until he stumbled over something and caught himself before he fell.
Then suddenly he was wrestling with a man who was quick and wiry, and had hot pungent breath. The man dug his nails into Crocker’s biceps while reaching for something with his other hand. On the ground Crocker saw the outline of a knife in the murk. The shape reminded him of the KA-BAR he’d been given on graduation from BUD/S, with a seven-inch blade made of 1095 steel. But that one had a SEAL trident engraved on one side and the name of a SEAL who had died in combat on the other. The one he saw now had an aluminum grip instead of a leather one.
He heard Tré moaning and caught a glimpse of him beyond the man, holding his right shoulder.
He saw a gleam in his adversary’s eye as his fingers tightened around the hunting knife. His face was covered with thick black whiskers. His bared teeth were long and uneven.
Crocker thrust his head forward and bit into the man’s neck. He responded by smashing Crocker on the side of the head with his fist. His other hand still held the knife, which now flashed in the tight space. Before he had a chance to thrust it into Crocker’s flesh, Crocker drove the heel of his hand into the man’s Adam’s apple once, twice, a third time, until he crushed the man’s windpipe. His assailant emitted a last cry before going limp.
“I think we did it, Tré. I think we stopped them.”
He repeated the words in his head like a mantra as he dragged Tré forward another hundred yards, then slung him onto his shoulder and climbed a set of concrete steps. His head hit something metal that stunned him briefly. It felt like a door. He pushed, swung it open, stuck his head through. Breathing hard and blinking, he saw what looked like an office with two metal desks and a potted ficus tree by the window.
He lifted Tré through the opening, sat him down in one of the brown leather chairs, and flipped on a halogen desk lamp. The room seemed to contain nothing personal, not even a calendar or a framed photo, just a travel poster for Vail, Colorado, on the wall. In the top drawer of one of the desks he found a manila envelope. Inside the envelope he found nine credit cards, four driver’s licenses, a map, and a set of keys.
Crocker used the little energy he had left to pick up one of the phones and dial the number he had committed to memory. A woman’s voice answered. “Yes?”
“This is 34266. I need an immediate ERS.”
“Hold on while I trace your location.”
“Okay,” she said thirty seconds later. “Hang up.”
Minutes later, tires screeched outside and car doors slammed. He unlocked the door to admit two big men with short hair, drawn pistols, and bulletproof vests under their suit jackets. One of them had a marine corps logo and “Semper fidelis” tattooed on his neck.
“34266?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Nice tat.”
Crocker noted his reflection in the window and was reminded of a rescued miner, covered from head to toe with dirt, bleeding from his hands and one shoulder.
The men carried Tré. He felt fresh air on his face and saw yellow streetlights and the outlines of glass buildings.