Page 118 of Ruin
The opening leads into a utility crawlspace—low ceiling, exposed wiring, the smell of concrete dust and machine oil.
Beyond it, according to Alexei's hand-drawn map, is the basement hallway.
I go through first, drop into the crawlspace and move forward on my elbows until the space opens into a corridor lit by a single fluorescent tube that buzzes and flickers like it's been dying for months.
The floor is poured concrete, stained and cracked.
Two doors on the left. One on the right.
The east room, where they're holding Emilia, should be the second door on the left.
Selene drops in behind me, then Lionel. Paul stays at the tunnel entrance to hold our exit.
I hold up two fingers and point left.
Lionel nods and moves to the first door, pressing his ear against the metal.
He holds up one finger. One man inside.
Probably the guard rotation Alexei described, the pair that stays in the corridor while the other two watch Emilia.
The radio is coming from behind this first door.
Tinny speakers, some Russian pop song, the kind of music bored men play to fill the hours of a shift where nothing is supposed to happen.
I look at Selene.
Her face is pale under the fluorescent flicker but her eyes are focused, tracking the corridor, looking at the doors, the distances, and the angles.
The knife is on her thigh. Her hand hasn't gone to it yet. That's good. Reaching for a weapon before you need it is how you end up using it wrong.
I signal Lionel. He tries the door handle. Unlocked, how careless.
Bored men get sloppy.
Lionel opens the door and goes through it in one fluid movement.
There's a sound—short, compressed, the wet thud of something heavy hitting something soft—and then nothing.
Lionel reappears in the doorway, wiping his hands on his pants.
One down.
We move to the second door. The east room. Emilia.
I can hear voices now. Two of them, speaking Russian.
One is complaining about the food. The other is talking about a football match.
Neither of them are taking their work seriously, and that much is obvious.
I try the handle. Locked.
Lionel positions himself. I count down on my fingers.
Three. Two. One.
His boot hits the door just below the handle and the frame splinters inward.
