Another gunshot. "Keep your heads down," Chris yelled. "He's just firing at random." A woman's scream came over the mic. Emilie? "s.h.i.t, he's taking her down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs."

The partner's haphazard shots forced SWAT to halt at the top of the stairs and take cover.

"There's no place for him to go," Johnson insisted, breathing hard. "Hold your positions."

"Can you see him at all?" Nathan hated being stuck outside.

"No," Chris replied. "He's too quick."

A gut-wrenching sound screeched over the radio: the crack of a gun discharging and the dull thud of impact as the bullet connected with flesh.

"Officer down," Johnson shouted.

"Adam," Chris yelled. "Adam, talk to me."

Adam Briggs had been a member of the team for only three months. Chris was his mentor, and the two had grown close.

Adam's ragged breathing was loud in Nathan's ears as the rookie struggled for air.

"Just my side," Adam gasped. "Don't worry about me. Get that b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Holt, give me some light," Johnson said.

"Entry point's in his right armpit, just above the Kevlar. He's bleeding pretty badly. "

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned lucky shot," Johnson huffed. "Put pressure on it."

Nathan found his voice. "Paramedics are coming in now. Chris, what's going on with the partner and Emilie?"

"s.h.i.t. It's quiet, Nate," Chris said. "Too quiet."

"You need to get down there."

"Madigan, you know d.a.m.ned well I can't send Holt down there," Johnson cut in. "Perp's got too much of an advantage. We've got to wait for backup."

Nathan listened as the paramedics arrived and Johnson ordered the rest of the team to rea.s.semble in the hallway. "This sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d has no way out. But he does have the advantage, and we're not taking any more risks. We'll set up here and cover the stairs. If we have to wait him out all night, then fine. He'll crack."

"What about Emilie?" Nathan gripped the barricade so hard that pain shot through his hand.

"We need you in here to establish contact with this guy. Try to negotiate her release. Come in armed-"

"Did you hear that?" Chris interrupted. "I could have sworn I heard her calling for help. Ms. Davis? This is SWAT officer Chris Holt. Can you hear me?"

Nathan's anxiety grew as the team waited for a response.

"Ms. Davis?" Chris repeated.

Her voice was barely audible over Nathan's earpiece. "Gone."

"Say again, Ms. Davis?" Chris asked.

"He's gone. He just let me go and...disappeared."

"He can't be gone," Johnson said. "Maybe she's an accomplice."

"No way she's in on this." Nathan had no doubt of Emilie's innocence. "She was too scared."

"She's probably just confused," Chris said. "Emilie?"

"I need help."

"We're coming, I promise. I need you to help us first. Our guy has to be down there. He's got nowhere to go but up-straight into us. Is he injured? Can you see him?"

"No. I'm telling you, he's gone. It's dark down here, but he's gone."

"She's not thinking clearly. He's using her to lead us into an ambush," Johnson said. "She needs to turn on the light and draw him out."

"Emilie, can you get to the light switch so we can come down and help you?" Chris's voice was m.u.f.fled. Nathan strained to hear.

A startled cry came from the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Emilie, what do you see?" Chris said.

"An old door," Emilie shouted.

"Where does it lead?"

"I...I don't know. It's closed, but he must have gone in there." She sounded frantic. "The bank was built on top of the foundation of one of the city's original buildings, but I've never seen this door."

"Emilie, back away from it," Chris said. "We're coming down."

Emilie collapsed against the wall. The track lighting flickered, threatening to plunge the room back into darkness. Her stomach twisted violently at the thought.

She recoiled as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Two men dressed in black fatigues and brandishing a.s.sault rifles slowly entered the room.

"I'm Chris." The taller one raised the shield on his helmet, revealing an average face and deep-set, brown eyes. Chris nodded to the stocky man standing behind him, still in full uniform. "This is Sergeant Johnson. The paramedics are coming. They're going to take care of you. You're safe now."

Emilie pointed to the west wall. A tremor shot through her arm. "There. I didn't know."

"Let us worry about the door," Chris said. "Get yourself checked out."

"I want to know what's behind that door." Emilie waved the paramedic off. "Where did the partner go?"

"Stand back." The one in charge hoisted his rifle onto his back and carefully approached the door. He ran his hands over the faded wood. Chris hovered behind him, his rifle poised to shoot.

Emilie's heart stuttered as Johnson's gloved hand closed around the rusted metal handle and yanked hard. Nothing happened.

"Son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h wedged it shut," he said. "Get the ram down here. And where's Madigan?"

The lobby was a mess: paper strewn everywhere, desks and chairs knocked over, bullet holes scattered across the gray walls. Paramedics lifted Joe's lifeless body into a black bag, and Nathan felt the same hollowed sense of loss he always did when a mission took a fatal turn. Despite his criminal acts, Joe belonged to someone. Now that someone's life may be in shambles.

Nathan made his way down the back hallway stepping carefully around the pool of Adam's blood. A ninety-degree turn at the bottom of the stairs revealed the alcove the partner had used as a shield.

Stale air washed over Nathan as soon as he stepped into the room. Half of the track lighting flickered. Old equipment and boxes of office supplies littered the unused s.p.a.ce. Two paramedics stood talking to an auburn-haired woman-Emilie. Her head was bent so that her hair shielded her face. She looked smaller and more fragile than Nathan had imagined. In the far corner of the room, Johnson and Chris struggled to force the door open.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d jammed it shut," Chris said as Nathan inspected the door. It was made of st.u.r.dy oak. Rusting metal rods held the planks together.

"This sucker is old, Nate. Our perp didn't put it here."

"How the h.e.l.l did he know about it?"

"Ram's here," Johnson said. "Let's get in there."

The door splintered open after several blows from the ram. A fetid scent oozed out from the gaping crack.

"d.a.m.n." Chris gagged. "That's rank."

Weapon raised, Nathan peered over his shoulder into the dark opening. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a crude hole in the wall, but on closer inspection, he realized it was a long, narrow pa.s.sageway. Decaying redwood posts supported the walls. Warped plywood served as a makeshift ceiling.

"Give me some light." Johnson led the group single file over the threshold. "Be ready. The son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h is probably hiding."

Nathan flipped on his Glock's tactical light and shined the beam in the tunnel. The walls of earth rippled with the movement of insects as they sought refuge from the foreign light. The cobwebs were so thick in places the ceiling couldn't be seen.

He covered his nose with his left arm and crouched in the small s.p.a.ce as he crept forward. About ten feet into the pa.s.sage, a section of the dirt wall had been dug out and replaced with a large oak barrel. Its metal fittings were peeling off. Black mold stretched over several gaps in the wood.

Nathan aimed his light at one of the redwood posts. Termites had taken over, but their damage wasn't what caught his attention. The new pillar that stood next to the redwood was far more interesting. He moved the flashlight beam and saw that each disintegrating post had a support beam placed next to it.

"Do you guys see this?"

"Those are brand new," Johnson said. "Jesus Christ."

Nathan stepped over the broken jugs and rusted metal scattered over the dirt floor. The tunnel continued another fifty feet then sharply turned left. The confined s.p.a.ce gradually widened into a circular room, its dimensions no larger than six by ten. The room was dug into the earth and had support beams scattered throughout. In the far corner, rickety old chairs stood around a corroded metal contraption covered with cobwebs and a few eight-legged residents.

"Is that what I think it is?" Nathan pointed his light at the haggard-looking device.

"Yep," Johnson answered. "An old distilling apparatus. Probably from the 1920s or '30s."

"Emilie said the bank was built over an original foundation," Chris said. "Guess we know how the owners paid the bills."

"So where's our guy?" Dust particles swam in the eerie glow of Nathan's tactical light as he moved around the room.

"There," Johnson said. "Go back to the right."

Three tactical lights honed in on a smaller tunnel not much larger than a crawl s.p.a.ce. The dirt around it had been disturbed. An impression roughly the size of a human body was visible.

"Where do you think that goes?" Chris asked.

Johnson pointed his light at him. "You're the skinniest. Go. And be careful."

"d.a.m.n." Chris edged inside. "You should see the size of the c.o.c.kroaches in here."

He disappeared. "This thing goes twenty or thirty feet. Hold on."

"What do you see?" Johnson knelt down and peered into the hole.

"Looks like an old sewer pipe. Not being used any more, thank G.o.d. Wait. There's an old, homemade hatch on the pipe. And it's open."

"You got a visual?" Nathan wished he could see into the tunnel.

"Not very far, but there's no one in sight."

"Are you telling me this b.a.s.t.a.r.d is running loose in the sewers?" Johnson said.

"No." Chris backed out of the hole wiping the grime off his fatigues. He stood up and pulled off his mask. His face was pale. "Pipe's been refurbished. I could see the code on the side. It's part of the drains."

"You're kidding me. The tunnels?" Nathan knew of the storm drain horror stories. Sprawling hundreds of miles beneath the city, the tunnels housed addicts, criminals, and the downtrodden. Few cops dared to venture inside.

"Yeah. He's in the wind now. How did he find out about this?"

Johnson was on the radio again. "Vice is going to head into the nearest drainage ditch and see what they can find. We'll be joining them."

Nathan took a last look around the antechamber. The amount of research and planning that must have gone into the endeavor was staggering. A lot of time had to have been spent in the dugout tunnel securing the area. The path was a bank robber's wet dream, but Nathan would bet a hundred bucks Joe had never known it existed.

"The partner planned this with the intention of kidnapping Emilie," Nathan said. "Joe never had a clue, or they would have left hours ago."

"Why didn't the partner take Davis before we came in?" Johnson asked. "Why wait until we had a chance to catch him? And why leave her after all the effort?"

"I don't know," Nathan answered. "Some part of his plan must have gone wrong. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"I'll tell the captain. Let's go."

Back inside the dim storage room, Nathan walked over to another SWAT officer. "Where's Emilie?"

"In the hallway with Detective Douche-bag."

"Avery. Christ. " Nathan made his way over to where Emilie was sitting on the bottom stair. All of the bravado he'd heard over the phone was gone. Her head was down. Her sc.r.a.ped, shaking arms clutched her small frame. Her entire body was turned away from Avery.

Nathan stepped forward and spoke softly. "Emilie?"

Slowly, she raised her head. Most of her wavy hair had escaped the knot at the back of her neck. A bruise was forming on her right cheek. Her bottom lip was raw at the corner, as though she'd been repeatedly chewing on it. Dirt marred the white, sleeveless top she wore. The heel of one shoe had snapped off.

"Nathan?" she whispered.

"Yeah, it's me. Are you all right?"