Page 45 of Roma Queen
I cross the compacted dirt of the main hall and find myself hovering on the lip of the unfinished subway platform. This station would have been a work of art had it ever been finished. The railway tracks were never fitted, but the deep well that would have taken the train was dug, and the tunnel to my right continues for at least a good mile and a half, branching off into numerous little side tunnels and airless rooms that Patrin, myself, and the other kids our age used to explore when were kids.
Refusing to second guess myself, I jump from the raised platform, down into the dirt below. It’s on this lower level, from a different vantage point, that I can make out the twin, narrow tracks imprinted into the ground, leading into the darkness of the tunnel. What had Lazlo said in the recording? It was his voice—I’d recognized it immediately. He’d told his accomplice to strap Sarah to a gurney. And those, to me, look suspiciously like the kind of tracks a gurney would make.
Twenty-One
ZARA
Pasha Rivinobviously doesn’t know what a horrible fucking liar he is. He had me convinced for about a minute in total back at my apartment, when he told me we needed to pay a visit to his friend in Korea Town, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting in the car on the ride over here. His calm slipped, and his deceiving, fibbing little ass couldn’t stop squirming. Must have been the fact that his pants were on fucking fire.
I already know he’s figured something out. He must have done, and I’ve been waiting for this moment for days now: the moment when he tried to ditch me in order to keep me safe. Don’t get me wrong. I understand his rationale. Lazlo’s a monster, a kidnapper and a murderer. I am a twenty-six-year old dispatcher, with very little in the way of self-defense training (only what Waylon taught me in my apartment living room three years ago), and literally no hope of overpowering a fully-grown man.
I’m not useless, though. I’m smart and determined, and Pasha might not realize this yet, but wearebetter off together than we are apart.
As soon as he leaves Dr. Choi’s dental office, I turn to the flush-faced guy plugging away at the keyboard in front of his computer and I make my demands. At first, Seo-Jun isn’t all that willing to comply.
“No fucking way, lady. You’re hot and all, but have you seen Pasha fight? He could knock my head clean off my shoulders if he wanted to. And hewillwant to if I let you walk out of here with a bag full of goodies.”
The man’s barely an inch taller than me, and besides, he’s sitting down. I square up to him, cocking my head to one side. “What do you thinkI’mgoing to do to you if you don’t give me what I want, Seo-Jun?”
He appraises me hopefully. “A stern talking to?”
“No. I’m going to call one of my friends at the police department. I’m a dispatcher. I have plenty of friends on the force. They’d probably be really interested in the weird set-up you’ve got going on in here.”
Seo-Jun’s mouth drops open. “That is seriouslylow. You do know that you’re here on the back of Pasha’s good name. You just fucked his all access pass to Doctor Choi’s Emergency Denta—”
I grab hold of the fucker by the scruff of his shirt, baring my teeth at him. “I’m sure you’ll forgive Pasha for my misdemeanor. And if you don’t, I’m sure he’s better off without you anyway. Now, are you going to give me what I need or not?”
* * *
If I wereto get arrested right now, I would be so,soscrewed. The black bag slung over my shoulder contains an array of items that, on their own, individually, would be considered interesting. Combined, they paint a pretty damning picture. I basically have a serial killer’s tool kit strapped to my back, and I don’t even know what I’m doing with half of it.
The duct tape and the handcuffs are one thing. Those can be put to good use fairly easily, without getting me into too much trouble. But the hypodermic needles are a different story. I also have enough Ketamin and Midazolam on me to kill a herd of elephants, according to Seo-Jun, and the gun I took from his safe? Well. That’s just the icing on top of this pretty little murder cake.
I get a cab across town, only a couple of miles from the Bakersfield, and I consider going back there quickly, just in case the payphone just so happens to be ringing. After a moment’s consideration, I reject the idea out of hand. Lazlo might call, but it doesn’t matter anymore. A series of events have been set in motion, and I need to step in, before both Sarah and Pasha end up dead.
I saw Pasha’s pupils blow out when he heard Sarah’s comment about the stars. My own pupils did the same thing. I was about to say the words—The fair! She’s talking about the ceiling in the subway station!—but then Pasha’s jaw had tightened, and I justknewhe was going to pull this shit.
Stupid, arrogant, ridiculousman.
We’ll be having words about this, the moment we’re safe and Lazlo’s behind bars. In the meantime, there’s something I have to do. I’m not stupid enough to feel brave walking into this situation. Not even close. Fear writhes inside me like a tangle of venomous snakes, but I force myself to work around it, breathing calmly even though it feels as though I should be hyperventilating into a paper bag.
The cab rolls to a stop at the side of the road where I’ve requested to be dropped off and I climb out, steeling myself. This isnotgoing to be easy. This is going to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but the thought of Sarah, naked, alone and afraid somewhere beneath Rochester Park does steel my nerves a little.
An elderly man with a tuft of silver hair smiles at me when I sit down on the bench beside him at the bus stop. “You getting the thirty-two to Montgomery?” he asks. “They weren’t expecting snow so early. Everything’s running late on account of the fact that they had to bring out the ploughs in the middle of the day.”
Itisunusual for snow so early in the year, and even more unusual for it to stick. The landscape’s very different from the national park we left behind this morning, but the inch-thick mantle of white that lies like fresh poured cement on the roofs of the parked cars and on top of the bus shelter suddenly leaps out at me, and I’m shocked that I haven’t noticed it before now. “No. I’m waiting on the twenty-two, actually,” I tell the old man.
He starts rambling on about how people were more prepared back when he was a young man. That the city’s infrastructure has turned to shit. I’m barely listening to him as I stare off up the street, watching the stream of traffic approach, looking out for the boxy, rectangular shape of an approaching bus.
Five minutes later, a number twenty-two turns off the freeway exit, making its way toward us, and the old mantisksunder his breath. “Just my luck. They’re gonna have to chisel me off this bench by the time mine arrives.”
The bus pulls up, the doors make a futuristic Star Trek style swishing sound as they part, and a brunette woman in her late forties glowers at me from the driver’s seat. “You getting on or what? Hard enough keeping this thing warm as it is.”
I take a step back and sit back down. “No. Sorry. Wrong bus.”
The driver looks like she’s going to flip me off. Instead, she grumbles under her breath and the doors swing closed.
“Thatwasyours,” the old man says. “Twenty-two. Said so on the front.”
