AGENT 23 BLACKOUT (Agent 23 Book 1)

CHAPTER 10

Alone, I wander down the forlorn passage, leaving Kayla behind up in the basement level of the museum. As I pass under rows of consecutive light fixtures, the bulbs switch on and off, illuminating my descent and casting the corridor behind me in darkness. The lights thump and sizzle, powering on, while clicking off as I move onto unfamiliar territory. Motion sensors, I suspect. An efficient way of saving money when the stairway isn't in use.

A whiff of burning dust drifts through the air, making its way into my nostrils, like when my grandparents cut on the heat at the beginning of winter. And speaking of the stairwell, its walls and steps appear chiseled from the bedrock. For security, I extend my hands and feel the rough-cut walls beneath my fingertips, which are lumpy with the occasional sharp edge. The surface of each step, however, is smooth under my feet, the treads polished for safety purposes. But whoever constructed the steps did not apply the same care to the risers, the vertical plane of the stairs. Its uneven texture grazes against my heels as I continue down.

This is the first time I've entered the stairwell, or used the hidden door up above. I can't explain the vision I had of the infrared lights or the blueprint outlines that directed me to all of this. This is uncharted territory.

In the distant background, Kayla says something. I stop and listen. I don't know how much farther I have to go.

"Kayla?" I say, wondering if she's talking to me or someone else, or to herself. I hope Oscar hasn't found her. My butt would be grass and Mrs. Payne would be the lawn mower if he squealed on us.

As I listen, I conclude she's not talking to me. If so, she'd raise her voice so I could hear her. But her tone is even and low. I guess she's speaking to Oscar. I imagine the security guard shining his flashlight in her eyes, hand on his baton, ready to spring into action. Not. Oscar isn't aggressive. He'd be quivering as he investigated the possibility of an intruder in the museum.

But if he had stumbled upon Kayla, wouldn't her voice come across more frightened, shocked, at least disturbed? Then my brain alights with an answer to this puzzle; she's talking on her cell phone. Maybe she's calling her dad or mom? Anyone she might know who could help? The police? Who knows?

I take another step down, about to warn her to get off her phone in fear Agent 24 could trace the signal and find us, when the last light in the passage flashes on, revealing a door at the bottom of the stairwell. I peer up at the entrance where Kayla remains hidden from view, and then I approach the door with trepidation and a small amount of curiosity. Next to the outer frame, there's a black box, similar to the keypad up above, but with a lens attached to the wall above it. Without thinking, I touch the dark glass and it lights up with a greenish glow, outlining my fingertips as if trying to detect or identify them. I press my entire hand against the box and watch the green lines encircle my palm. The glow pulsates and a voice in a speaker somewhere above says, "Cleared. Identity tentatively established as Aiden Quick."

Tentatively? What did the voice mean by that?

The lens above the hand scanner glows green. I stare at it and shrug. Again, without prior knowledge of why, I place my eye against the tiny round glass, and as suspected, the light slides across my retina and then pulsates with acceptance.

"Identity confirmed."

I purse my lips and watch as the door swings open.

As I enter, the thump and sizzle of the stairwell fixtures clicking on an off startles me. Someone is coming, and they're in a hurry.

I realize it's Kayla. Her labored huffs and puffs, and the occasional moan makes its way to my ears as she runs down the steps. When she reaches me, her eyes bulge out, big and round, her face awash in fright. She stretches toward me and tries to pull me back into the corridor. I resist her, and instead, I yank her into the room, which explodes into a fury of bright fluorescent lights.

As our momentum carries us into the room, I swing Kayla around, putting me between her and the door. My first concern is what she is doing. Why was she running? And why was she trying to keep me from entering the room?

I don't have to wait long for the answer.

"The door up above was closing," she says, "and I didn't want you to get locked down here by yourself."

"So, you overcame your fear of enclosed spaces and rushed to my rescue?"

"Kind of." She half-smiles. "I think when the door closed, it activated the section of metal shelving to hide the entryway too. No one will ever find us if we're trapped down here."

"But why did you try to keep me out of this room?" For the first time, my eyes play across the interior of the space. It's about as large as a two-car garage. The walls are white and the floors are concrete, painted black. Stainless steel compartments wrap around the room, and there's a shiny metal worktable in the center.

My gaze returns to Kayla. "Why did you try to keep me from entering?"

She hesitates, her eyes flittering to the wall nearest to us and its compartment door, about as big as a refrigerator turned sideways. "I-I didn't think you should enter because..." she looks at me, "because... what if you got trapped inside here? Then I'd be trapped by myself in the stairwell. It's an enclosed space." She crooks her neck forward and widens her eyes. "I'm claustrophobic, remember?"

Slowly, I nod. Makes sense. "Who were you talking to on your phone? I thought for a second Oscar had found you. But then I realized—"

"I was trying to call my dad for help, but I couldn't get a good signal in the basement." She sighs with a hint of frustration, reminding me of the northeastern gales that hit Coastal City in the fall, raking over the frothy ocean waves, before winter arrives. I can't settle on whether she's frustrated with me asking or failing to contact her dad. I assume the latter.

"Okay," I say, accepting her answer.

Her cheeks remain flushed, her eyes wide with lots of white showing around her pupils. I don't feel shy anymore. It seems natural to comfort Kayla. I draw close and allow my hands to graze her shoulders, cupping her upper arms. I lower my chin and stare into her eyes. "It'll be okay. We'll find our way out of here, I promise."

As I smile warmly, she softens under my gaze. Nods and swallows.

It's then I take a hard look around me, wondering what's behind each of the stainless-steel compartment doors. With my attention off of Kayla, I roam around, running my fingers over the worktable in the center of the spotless room. A particular compartment catches my eye, one that draws me to it with a magnetic-like pull.

Biting my lower lip, I wander over and raise my hand to open it.

"Should we mess with the stuff in this room?" Kayla asks, her voice quick off her lips.

"Well." I roll my shoulder with a casual shrug, as if her question is of little concern to me. "I suspect that's why we're down here, to see what kind of mystery this room holds, and," I glance back at her with a nervous arch of my brows and a slight grin, "I suppose we're about to find out."