“We’re not going to Chinatown, Mr. Lynch.”
“Too bad. There are very few disputes that couldn’t be solved over a large platter of bok choy.”
“We’ll settle for the contents of that gym bag.”
“Point taken. How much farther do I have to go?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re finished.”
In the next nine minutes, Lynch tried to keep his bearings, but he was only certain of his location when he saw access signs for the Grand Avenue Music Center complex.
Soon the voice shouted out one last command.
“Stop!”
Lynch eased off on the throttle and rested his feet on the passageway’s concrete floor. “What now?”
“Welcome, Mr. Lynch.” This time the voice came from behind him, different from the one from his phone.
Lynch threw down the bike and spun around. Two men stepped from the shadows, wearing black tactical suits and face masks. Both men carried guns, and one walked with a distinct limp.
Lynch smiled. “You wouldn’t have gotten that limp on Desert Route 19 a couple days ago, would you? Because if so, I know the young women who gave it to you. And neither of them is the least bit sorry.”
Lynch could tell that he’d provoked a strong reaction. The man leaned forward and balled up his free hand. His tightening jaw was visible even through the mask.
Excellent, Lynch thought. The man was already having trouble controlling his anger. That would make him easier to take down if the situation demanded it.
The other man was still a question mark. He was tall, and he moved with steady, more deliberate motions. He bent over and picked up a large electronic wand.
“I’m not carrying a weapon,” Lynch said.
“I’m not worried about weapons. We need to make sure you’re not being tracked.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ll see.” The man switched on the wand and waved it in Lynch’s direction. After a moment he put down the wand. “It appears you’re telling us the truth.”
The limping man pointed toward the gym bag Lynch was holding. “You have something that belongs to us.”
“And you still have Delilah Winter. I was hoping to see her here.”
“That was never a part of the deal.”
Lynch shrugged. “Twenty million dollars is an awful lot to give away on faith.”
The tall man chuckled. “You’re talking as if it’s your money.”
“I just want to see an innocent young woman returned safely.”
“She will be.”
“Where? When?”
“When and where we decide.”
The limping man stepped forward and snatched the gym bag. He unzipped it and shone his flashlight inside at the stacks of currency.
“Unmarked and nonsequential serial numbers,” Lynch said. “Per your request.”
The tall man adjusted his sensor wand and waved it over the bag. The device emitted a low-pitched tone.
The man inhaled sharply, every muscle tensing. “What are you trying to pull here?”
“It’s your bag,” Lynch said. “There’s nothing in it but the cash.”
The man pulled out a stack of bills and checked it with the wand. Again it emitted a tone. He rifled through the bills, then tore off the paper band. He held the band up and waved it past his wand.
Another low-pitched tone.
“You scumbag,” the man said. “There are tracking chips in these paper bands.” He glanced around. “Your friends could be here any second.”
“You’ve got to be wrong. Check it again.” Lynch stepped back warily as the two men turned on him. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Like hell you don’t. Your friends just signed that songbird’s death warrant.”
The other man smiled through the opening in his mask. “And yours.”
BLAM!
Lynch ducked just in time to avoid the bullet as it whizzed by him and ricocheted around the passageway’s concrete walls.
Lynch rolled.
BLAM! BLAM!
Two more misses.
Gotta put something between himself and these guys. Fast.
The bike. Lynch grabbed it and hurled it at the men, knocking them off balance. Before they could recover, Lynch punched the taller man and knocked the gun from his hand. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and rammed his skull against the wall. Lynch spun toward the other man.
Too late. The guy was ready with his gun.
BLAM!
Lynch’s ears buzzed and his vision blurred. He’d been hit. Maybe on the forehead, maybe on the temple. But in either case, why was he still conscious?
BLAM!
He flew backward as another bullet struck his protective jacket. It may have shielded his vital organs, but his insides still felt like they were exploding. He rolled into the darkness and moved his hands across the floor.
The gun.
Gotta find that gun. It was here somewhere.
But a fog was creeping over his forehead, matched by the warm stickiness in his hair.
Blood.
The fog was thicker now.
Fight it.
Stay awake.
Stay alive.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Both men fired indiscriminately into the dark passageway, but they were flying blind and none of the bullets found their mark. Lynch rolled over to hug the passageway’s inside wall.
The gunfire stopped.
“Let’s go,” one of the men said to the other. Lynch was too woozy to know which one was speaking. “And leave the money.”
“Leave it?”
“It isn’t safe. It will lead them straight to us. Hurry!”
Their two sets of footsteps pounded away, echoing in the concrete corridor.
Lynch forced himself to stand.
His head buzzed even louder. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to die in this hole.
Gotta get to the surface. There at least he had a chance.
He cocked his head. There was another sound, behind the buzzing. A distinctive clattering of steel wheels on rails. Trains.
Trains?
He staggered forward. He heard a P.A. system, blaring announcements of some kind.
He was beneath a train station. Of course. Union Station.
The sound was filtering down from a grate. He grabbed a rusty iron rung protruding from the wall and pulled himself up.
Damn. This wasn’t going to be easy.
He climbed another step as blood drizzled over his forehead and eyes.
His head throbbed, but his bruised ribs pained him more.
Dammit!
Pain. Sharp, stabbing pain.
He tasted blood on his lips. Ignore it. Fight through it.
He climbed a few more feet. The announcements were now louder and more distinct. The Amtrak Pacific Surfliner was now boarding…
One more rung. Then another. And another after that.
He stopped. Everything was spinning, and he felt his grip loosening.
No. He couldn’t pass out now. Not when he was so damn close…
He looked up and focused on the grating. Busy commuters walked back and forth over it. A luggage cart rolled over and momentarily darkened the narrow passageway.
Focus. Climb.
He pushed himself upward, racing against his receding consciousness.
Just a few more feet…
Made it.
No time to celebrate. He still had to get topside.