Eggplant scoffs. “They’re not gonnacatchus.”
We reach the end of the hallway and they drop me in a heap on the floor. It takes effort to let myself fall like deadweight, without bringing my hands up to shield my face. I land with a jarring thud, my forehead banging against the concrete, half my face coming to rest in a brackish puddle. I can feel their eyes on me as I lie there like a stone, barely breathing as I struggle to keep my face clear of allemotion.
“Stupid bitch is stilloutcold.”
“How hard did youhither?”
“Hardenough.”
Cueball is relegated to guard duty while Eggplant slips out to retrieve their getaway car. I don’t dare open my eyes again, even asliver.
“Watch her!” Eggplant barks at his partner before shoving a door wide, its metal hinges screeching. I hear a low electrical buzz as a lift gate clangs open. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say we’re at some kind of truck-loading zone or a back door used for supplydrop-off.
My mind whirls as I consider the few facts I knowforsure.
They said we were in the basement. Probably down below the main exhibit floor, then. Maybe even below sea level. It would explain the moisture intheair.
Eggplant mentioned his stiletto blade, but nothing about a gun. The fact that they can’t shoot me raises my odds of survivalincrementally.
I hear Cueball pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. I count his steps as he makes laps. Ten toward the door, ten back to me. Ten to the door, ten back to me. Likeclockwork.
It might be my onlychance.
When I hear him start another circuit toward the door, I crack open my eyes and see him walking to the metal gate. Heart in my throat, I roll soundlessly from my side onto my knees, bunching the soaked hem of my dress in one hand as I lift into a crouch on my four inchheels.
I wait until he’s almost at the gate before I scramble upright and start running the opposite direction, back down the narrow hallway. It’s dark and I have no idea where I’m going, but I figure bolting in the opposite direction of the scary bad guys is as good a choiceasany.
He hears me running as soon as my heels click against the concrete. So much for my headstart.
“Hey! Stop! Get back here,bitch!”
As if,bucko.
I pass the pile of rusted scuba tanks and buckets. Pausing for a moment, I turn and shove the heavy cylinders with both hands — they fall with a massive clatter, like fifty-pound dominoes, rolling across the floor to create a momentary roadblock. I grin as I spin and start sprinting again, grabbing my dress hem to keep fromtripping.
I hear him cursing as the tanks roll toward him but don’t risk turning around to watch him struggle. At the end of the hallway, I finally spot what I’ve been looking for — a metal exit door topped with a sign that says STAIRWELL. I slam into it full force, grasping for the handle. No matter how I twist, it doesn’t budge — either locked or simplystuckshut.
Shit.
A scream of frustration rattles in my throat. I can hear Cueball coming — he sounds enraged from my stunt with the scuba tanks. I whirl around, seeking an alternate route. There’s another door to the left, slightly ajar. I squeeze through the gap in a blind panic, hoping I’ll find a window, another set of stairs,anythingthat might help me get outofhere.
Instead, I’m confronted with a maze of storage rooms, one leading straight into the next. I soon discover an underground labyrinth of aquatic equipment, each space stacked to the ceiling with discarded instruments, empty tanks, replacement parts. There’s no end insight.
I cut a path through room after room, eyes straining to adjust to the dark, trying to move as silently as possible. I hear the screech of the metal door behind me as Cueball follows me into the maze. His steps are methodical as he moves, checking each room to see if I’ve stopped to hide behind a shelf, inside an old tank, beneath a pile of rubberywetsuits.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls in a singsong voice, chuckling. “Don’t you want to help your brother,Delilah?”
Shit.
He’s closer than Ithought.
I pass into the next room, this one better lit and full of massive pipes that flow from the floor into the ceiling. Each is wider than my waist. A power grid with switches and a complicated panel of gauges dominates one wall. It’s a maintenance room, filtering water for the exhibittanks.
There are signs of life, here. An employee badge lying on a desk. Someone’s leftover sandwich, sitting beside it. An emptycoffeemug.
That must mean I’m getting close toanexit.
I make my way to the next door, yanking it open and slippinginside.