Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Durwood looked at the others. Two humans and a dog. Piper Jackson's mouth was twisted like she bit into a bad peach. Yves Pomeroy had been gung-ho, but now he tiptoed back from the shaft's edge.

They heard a second splash.

Durwood said, "Guess Henri had it right."

Yves Pomeroy nodded vigorously. "It is precisely as I said—he is an homme d'honneur!"

Memories of his old boss must've stirred something in Pomeroy's bones. He pinched his nose with shaky fingers, closed his eyes, and stepped into the void.

Piper Jackson watched him disappear, then looked to Durwood.

"Too far, man," she said. "Y'all got me captured by Rivard, locked up in a dungeon. Now I'm supposed to jump into some underground cavern blind? No idea what's down there?"

The cable stiffened in front of them. Whirring sounded above. Fabienne, Thérèse Laurent, and Blake Leathersby would be here soon.

"You got worse from the Blind Mice." Durwood laid his duster down on the limestone, secured his guns and weapons satchel. "And done plenty yourself."

The hacker glared hard at him, but her feet were shuffling forward.

She gestured at Sue-Ann. "What're you gonna do with her?"

Durwood said, "If we swim, she'll swim."

Now the bottom of the elevator car above came into view. Its wheezing was joined by clangs and knocks. The enemy was upon them.

"On three," Durwood said.

Piper sniffed.

"One..." He reached down to take his boots in hand. "Two..."

Sue-Ann scrabbled the limestone.

Durwood bent his front leg, bluejeans tight about the knee.

"Three!"

He jumped feet-first into the center of the shaft. Sue-Ann scrambled after, and with luck, Piper Jackson went third.

Durwood lost his stomach and all orientation. Frigid air shot up his nostrils. In flashes he perceived the elevator cable for another fifteen-odd feet, then it was gone and they were falling through a vacuum.

He neither saw nor heard Jackson.

Two or three tough nails raked Durwood's forehead. He couldn't see Sue-Ann, the light from above long gone, but her heaving breath was near.

Durwood made his feet and toes into a straight line, hoping to knife into the water and lessen its impact. He understood Sue would have no such strategy. Most likely she was flying through the air spread eagle like a baby deer on ice.

Durwood's muscles clenched. He waited.

He waited a good while.

Finally, the surface below arrived like a brick floor. Uppercutting his chin. Smacking his spine. When he'd recovered, he gripped his boots and used them like flippers.

It felt like the initial drive had taken him twenty, thirty feet down. Was he above or below the others? Had they survived impact? Had he, in fact, collided with one of them instead of the water?

He swam about. He tried opening his eyes but the water stung awful—he pinched them tight again. What little he'd seen had been black anyhow.

After another ten seconds of struggle, Durwood learned ruefully that his partner Quaid Rafferty had been right.

About the man-eating fish.

Quick, eager daggers gnawed him six places at once. Durwood kicked the teeth off but others latched on. He swatted and elbowed and snatched. He got hold of one. Piranha, judging by the shape.

Durwood started hearing murky bubbling below. Soon it resolved to dim screams. Then the screams came from the sides too.

He opened his eyes again despite the sting. Now he could see some, shapes and colors by a watery far-off light.

Yves Pomeroy wasn't far, flopping like a channel cat hooked through the cheek. Frizzy gray hair floating out from his head in a single long strand.

Durwood waded over and, transferring both boots to one hand, caught the Frenchman's wrist. Every action took twice as long through water as it would've on land.

Paddling with one arm, Durwood propelled them both down. His lungs burned. He was leaving the piranhas be mostly. He'd shed them if they went after a vein or artery.

After ten feet farther, the far-off light became clearer. A sort of spotlight. Beside it was a round portal opening, steel-rimmed, three feet across.

Durwood angled for the light and portal as best he could. His bluejeans felt like an anchor. Yves' flailing altered their course. His own muscles were on oxygen fumes. The water was oppressive this deep, heavy on his brain and eardrums.

When he caught the portal with the tip of his boot and reeled himself through, he saw the bottom of Jackson's sneakers ahead. The passageway was still underwater.

Must turn up at some point. Turn up and get dry.

He pulled Yves Pomeroy through after him. The going was easier here—their knees could contact the passageway sides.

Durwood glanced back at the portal and saw Sue-Ann, frantic in the whites of her eyes. She had three legs through and the fourth stuck—jammed against her ear by the steel rim.

He labored back and yanked her along with her paw.

Durwood was positive his lungs would burst any second. At last, they reached a ladder. Durwood muscled his way up, passing Yves as he did. Six rungs up, their heads cleared into sweet, sweet air.

"What took you so long?"

The voice had vexed Durwood often through the years, but he welcomed it now.

Quaid Rafferty stood with folded arms, suitcoat dripping, grinning, beside Molly McGill.

"Fish," Durwood said.

They moved quickly to tactics. Quaid said he'd scouted ahead and seen that the passage ran twenty more yards before descending back into limestone.

Durwood check his handheld GPS. "We're near to the supply tunnels. Might be we could blast in."

"No!" Molly said. "No blasting out—the Great Safe is this way."

Durwood ran his calloused thumb along the rock. The surface felt wetter here, slimy, with a sort of hot intensity.

"Maybe," he said. "Along with who knows what else."

—

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