Tenth Man

by Tamara Sheehan

Chapter 23

Toven hesitated and Howie craned his neck. “Hey,” he whispered. Sweat beaded on his arms and face, dripped from the end of his nose. The vent was stifling. “What’s up?”

“I thought I heard something.” Toven whispered back. He flattened himself to the lower part of the vent, squashing is face against an outlet. Below them was a silent office, a large wooden desk and two leather chairs left unattended.

“C’mon.”

“Wait.”

Breath was getting difficult to draw. This vent was too small for two. He put his head down and brought it up again. “I’m going to the next air inflow,” he whispered.

Toven nodded. “I’ll follow in a bit,” he answered, eyes rolling as he sought something in the room below.

Toven waited until Howie was gone. He wiped sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve, pushed hard on the vent and heard the metal groan. He sat frozen for a moment, shocked into paralysis by the volume of the sudden noise.

When it seemed no one was coming to investigate, he pushed again, muscles straining against the blots that held the metal in place. The vent gave way with a sudden snap, went crashing into the office below.

He dropped down into the room. Familiar smells assailed him, the leather of the chairs, the cleaner that was used on the massive wooden desk. Cologne he had long ago learned to hate. The mingled scents made his hackles rise.

He crouched, crossed over the floor like some movie villain, and went round the desk. It was just as he remembered it. Pens were stored in the upper right drawer, paper directly below it. He sat in the big leather chair and scrawled a note, folded the paper in three and set it in the center of the desk.

Toven tucked the pen away and crept back to the vent.

“Excellent, Martin. Mister Audel will be very pleased.”

Toven froze, hands extended in anticipation of a jump toward the vent. He turned slowly toward the office door.

It opened. A weak, watery light spilled in, illuminating him.

“Toven Audel.” Ian’s soft accent filled up the darkness. “Your father’s been looking for you.”

The incubus was upon him, his fingers clamped over Toven’s mouth, his arm too tight around his neck. Toven clawed at the arm, fighting for air, digging his heels into the carpet as Ian dragged him toward the door.

He grunted, kicked Toven’s hand when he seized the doorjamb. A muffled cry escaped Toven, he jerked down, an attempt to break the inhuman strength of the incubus.

Paralysis was spreading. His entire mouth was numb, his tongue felt oversized and swollen. He was trying to shout, to swear, but only spittle and air came out of his mouth. He thrashed and found the numbness seeping into his arms, his legs.

Ian shifted his grip, letting Toven’s head loll against his forearm. Only his eyes would obey him. His arms hung slack at his sides, his legs, splayed, trailed after him like a wake.

“Did you know there’s a dinner party tonight?” Ian asked him, bouncing Toven up into a firmer grip. His arms snaked under Toven’s and his hands clasped around Toven’s chest, pulling him effortlessly into a long, white corridor.

Something flickered at the edge of Toven’s vision, he tracked it with his eyes. Behind the grate of a door he glimpsed a small face, a shock of red hair. The person watching held a finger to her lips. Bridget. Ian’s grip shifted. Toven’s head rolled back against Ian’s hip. Howie, I’ve found her! Saul! He wanted to shout the name.

There was noise ahead, the sound of shouting, a roaring of machinery and clay feet stamping. Toven gasped what was meant to be a cry. There was movement at the end of the hall, a door swung open.

Suddenly he was falling. Ian dropped him on the polished concrete floor, he heard the concussion as his head struck the ground. He wanted to groan but couldn’t make the sound.

“I found him sir.” Ian’s voice was simpering, disgusting. “In your office, sir. Didn’t take anything.”

Hands took Toven by the shoulders, pulled his face toward the ceiling. His father hovered above him, the sagging skin around his mouth bunched into a fearsome grin. He spat. Warm saliva ran down Toven’s face.

“Good. Mbeki has Saul.” He pulled Toven into a sitting position. “He’s filthy. Where was he?”

“In the vents.”

“Ah. And the other one?”

“Still missing.”

Bridget or Howie? He wondered. He slumped forward onto his father and slid slowly down. He felt a strange pressure on his hands, looked down. His father was running his hands over Toven’s fingers, seeking for the ring he could not see. Toven’s body slipped and sagged until he lay again on the floor.

Bridget stared out from the grate in the door. Whatever Audel had been searching for, he had apparently found because he stood suddenly and marched to the warehouse. The thin, pale man followed, dragging his captive by the wrist, letting the door swing slowly closed behind.

Mbeki has Saul.

She was crouching, one hand wrapped around her stomach, the other still pressed to her mouth, a shushing sign she had made when the captive man’s eyes had focused on her. A clatter overhead made her cringe against the door. She looked wildly around her.

“Bridge?”

A hoarse sound, a whisper of disbelief. A voice she knew. She looked up.

“Howie!”

The relief of a friendly voice almost made her laugh out loud. Howie was there, suspended above her, only a vent screen separating them. He stared down at her. Sweat was running down his nose. He was breathing hard.

“Jesus Christ, Bridge, you’re okay?”

“Howie they’ve got Saul.” She spoke in a frantic, hissing whisper.

Howie squirmed in the vent above her, his pocket knife glinting as he worked free the screws of the covering.

“I saw the tall English guy with another man. I was going down the elevator shaft but I heard Saul...” she broke off. There was no air in her lungs, she was panting. “Screaming, Howie, he was screaming.” Her mouth was thick with fear. “What they did to Saiid. Howie...”

The vent groaned, slipped to one side and dangled precariously over her.

“Catch.” Howie whispered and let it fall.

She dodged it and the metal banged against the floor and bounced, a cacophony. Howie reached down and caught her upraised arms. She kicked as if to propel herself upward until she was curled in the tight quarters above the service room.

“You OK?” He asked, squeezing in beside her. His face and arms were slick with sweat. “For real, you OK?”

She felt the urge to cry, wanted to close her eyes and find herself facing nothing worse than exams. Instead she nodded. “Not hurt.” And managed a quick smile. “Really scared.”

“Me too.” Howie scrambled ahead of her. “Come on, the warehouse is two hundred feet ahead. I want to see what the hell is going on.”

Sweat trickled down the line of her jaw. Bridget followed.

Proceed to chapter 24...