If Looks Could Kill (12 page)

Caylin shrugged. “I wanted my money back.”

Lucien chuckled. “Did you really think you could sneak around here without getting caught? I mean, you seem like such a clever girl.”

“Not clever enough, I guess,” Caylin replied. “But at least I don't have a cellar full of stolen cash keeping me up at night. And a dorm full of brainwashed kids hanging on my every word. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

“So, then, I disappoint you, too?” Lucien asked, appearing amused.

“
Disgust
is more the word I'd use.”

Lucien nodded, as if to accept it. He held up an inquiring finger. “Let me ask you this, Caylin, or whatever your name may be. Do you see anything in that temple to suggest that my students are unhappy? Brainwashed? Being held against their will?”

Caylin didn't answer.

“I'll take your silence as a no,” Lucien said. “You see, they're devoted. But not devoted the way you might be devoted to whatever agency sent you here. They are . . . saturated. There isn't any part of them that isn't completely dedicated to what we're teaching here. Most of them have forgotten that another world exists outside these walls. They have found true peace. A true utopia. A true home.”

“A place to stash their parents' cash,” Caylin corrected, fists balled tightly.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “If you found your version of paradise, wouldn't you offer every penny you had to keep it?”

“Every penny converted into unmarked hundred-dollar bills,” Caylin countered, her expression defiant. “Shipped out in small deposits to banks in the city. Marked down as donations. Then run through a complex computerized accounting system that makes every transaction untraceable. A system guarded by government-level watchdog security. Probably pirated from the CIA
off the black market.” She folded her arms and smirked. “Stop me if I'm wrong.”

“I couldn't stop you if you were,” Lucien replied dryly. A smile curled his lips. “You were definitely one of my gabbier students.”

“Shame you didn't teach me anything,” she said, gesturing to the roomful of cash. “I had to do an independent study to get what I was looking for.”

“Okay, Caylin,” Lucien said darkly, stepping forward menacingly. “The insult game is over. Who are you working for?”

At last, Caylin thought. The ruthless criminal comes out.

She took an instinctive step back but held up a brave front, saying nothing.

Lucien's expression intensified. His sparkling blue eyes nearly simmered in their sockets. “I ask again, who are you working for?”

Caylin glared at him, but kept silent.

“Well, it seems that this conversation is now over.” He smirked, stroking his chin. “Such a pity. You brought me such nice, crisp hundred-dollar bills.”

“Can we kill her?” one of the shaved heads asked.

A chill ran up Caylin's spine.

Lucien thought about it. A smile curled his lips. “No,” he said. “Bring the car around. Let's take her to work.”

Jo slammed into the back of Theresa, and the two of them belly flopped down the rusty stairs. Theresa's hand shot out and snagged the steel railing, bringing both of them to a tense, panicky halt.

Whoa, she thought. That was close. Another inch and she would've rolled right to the bottom of the steps.

“You okay?” Jo whispered from behind her.

“You mean other than my arm being torn from its socket?” Theresa asked angrily. “I see those ballet lessons are finally paying off.”

“Sorry, T.,” Jo said. “I slipped.”

“I noticed.”

Theresa continued forward shakily, trying to flex the pain from her limbs. She was going to have bruises on bruises after this mission. She reached the bottom of the
steps without tripping over her own feet, then ducked to the side behind a large canvas cart full of cloth. Jo was next to her in seconds.

“See?” Theresa said breathlessly, her heart hammering. “Piece of cake.”

“Yeah, but you're about as graceful as a cow. Keep going—I want to get out of here.” Jo pointed to the next cart. “That way.”

They shuffled to the next cart almost on their hands and knees. They paused when a huge guard sauntered by, puffing on a nasty-looking cigar. His teeth were brown, and he wore no shirt. Streams of oily sweat ran down his torso, and he had hair up his back to his shoulders.

He paused momentarily not five feet in front of them. But he was intent on several workers down the aisle who weren't hustling as fast as he liked.

Then the smell hit Theresa. Pure body odor. So intense that it felt like a dirty hand clamped over her nose.

Jo gripped Theresa's arm. “I think I'm gonna puke,” she whispered.

“Steady,” Theresa said, holding her nose.

The guard moved on down the aisle, barking in some unknown language. The smell lingered like a deep footprint.

Theresa glanced at Jo. Her hand was clamped over her mouth and nose, and her eyes were watering.

“It's
on
me, T.,” Jo moaned. “The smell is on me—I can feel it!”

“Come on,” Theresa urged. “Let's go find a nice sewer somewhere.”

They peeked around the cart. The nearest guard was a dozen paces away. No better chance. They crawled to the next cart and paused. The guard had moved farther away.

Theresa was about to bolt for the doorway when she caught the eye of one of the workers. She froze, and Jo slammed into her. But Theresa couldn't move.

The slave was a middle-aged woman, but she looked much older. A young boy—probably her son—sat next to her. They worked the fabric through the machines together because they were obviously too exhausted to
do it separately. The woman seemed to look right through Theresa, her face blank. Then she turned back to her work without a word.

Theresa gulped.

This was insane. She scanned some of the other workers. Men who looked like they were starving. Women who looked ancient. Children who looked ready to pass out at their machines.

“Look,” Jo whispered, pointing.

There was a young woman not far away, maybe nineteen or twenty. But she looked more like forty.

“Is she American?” Jo asked.

Theresa shrugged. It was possible. But who could tell for sure with all the dirt and sweat?

Theresa forced herself to move on, her jaw set grimly.

Soon it was in sight. The only thing that stood between them and the archway was another cart, a pile of discarded cloth, and ten feet of open floor.

“Ready?” Theresa asked.

“Of course not,” Jo replied.

Theresa smirked and got in position. The only guard
near them had moved off. Several carts now blocked his line of sight.

“Now's our chance—go!” Jo urged.

Theresa bolted to the last cart. She slid along its far side and started climbing the pile of discarded cloth.

Someone groaned. A puff of smoke rose from the other side of the pile.

She froze.

What was that? Theresa inched farther up the pile, trying to see—

A guard sat up on the other side of the pile! Bits of cloth clung to his back like leeches. He groaned again, brushed some away, and stretched.

Theresa's eyes bugged, and panic shot through her like a thunderbolt.

He'd been dozing on the cloth pile! His stinky cigar was less than two feet from Theresa's face!

Theresa slid back down the pile and went into a fetal position. She frantically started burying herself in the pile of scrap. In seconds she was partially concealed—as long as she stayed still. She glared back at Jo. She had taken
refuge behind the last cart. She was totally pale.

The guy looked around, still sleepy. He held his cigar, yawned, and smacked his lips.

He didn't see me, Theresa thought. He would've flipped by now.

But how were they going to get by him?

A voice barked from across the room. The guard scowled and looked that way. The voice came again. The guy grunted something back and waved. Then he stood and stretched. He shook his head like a dog and belched.

From the foul look on Jo's face, she was thinking the same thing as Theresa: What a pig!

The guard turned around then and marched right up and over the pile of scrap. On his way down the other side one big boot came down next to Theresa's nose. The other came down on her left hand.

It took all of her willpower not to scream.

The guy moved on, but Theresa pulled her hand back and held it. It throbbed hotly but seemed to be okay. Rage blossomed within her, and she wanted to pop that guy right in the kisser. After a flea bath, of course.

Then Theresa froze again.

The guard had paused next to the cart Jo was hiding behind. She could've reached out and tugged on his greasy pants.

Jo glared at Theresa as if to ask, What now?

Theresa mouthed “don't move” and flexed her hurt hand. All either of them could do was stay still.

The guard fished in his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it, but nothing happened. Flicked it again. And again.

Theresa rolled her eyes. Come
on.

Finally the lighter blazed to life. He put the flame to his dying cigar to freshen it. Puffs of smoke came up. Then he snapped the lighter shut, pocketed it, and admired his smoke. A dreamy look came over his face, and he puffed on it some more.

Then fresh panic rose in Theresa. From her angle she could see another guard—the big hairy head guard—approaching. He looked ticked. The other guard was too busy enjoying his cigar to see him.

He marched right up and smacked the stogie out of the
guy's mouth! Red ashes and smoke shot up from the guy's face in a blizzard . . . and the cigar flipped over the cart and came down right on Jo's head!

Jo spazzed and knocked the chewed-up stump away, not stopping until all the burning ashes were out of her hair. Theresa had never seen such a look of pure rage on Jo's face. Her hair—in a tight ponytail before—was now everywhere. Her nostrils were flared nearly as wide as her eyes, and her breaths came in deep, heaving gulps.

The head guard bellowed a litany of insults. The smaller guard could only sit there and take it. But Theresa could see his eyes. . . . He was searching the floor for his cigar. And it was smoldering a few inches from Jo's right hand.

If he found the cigar, she was snagged for sure!

Theresa frantically tried to signal Jo, but she wasn't looking. She was too busy brushing the residual ashes from her hair.

“Come on, Jo, look!”

Finally Jo glanced her way. Theresa caught her eye and made sure she was paying attention. She held up her own right hand and pointed to it. Then she pointed at Jo's hand.

Jo looked down. And her eyes went wide.

The head guard finished screaming and walked away from the smaller guard. Immediately the smaller guard started searching for his lost cigar.

At that instant Jo flicked it with her finger. It spun out from behind the cart and came to a stop right by the guy's foot.

He smiled, picked it up, and put it back in his mouth. The guard walked away, happily flicking his dead lighter.

Theresa let out a huge sigh and crawled out from under the cloth. Jo shuffled forward and met her behind the last cart. She immediately parted her hair for Theresa and bared her skull.

“Do I have a burn?” she demanded. “I swear it feels like I have a burn.”

“I don't see anything, Jo,” Theresa replied wearily. “Let's go.”

“Ooh, I wanted to hit that guy! What a walking trash bag!”

“Come on,” Theresa pleaded, tugging Jo's arm.

She took one last look around. The coast was as clean as could be, all guards' hygiene considered.

They bolted across the last ten feet and through the archway. Once outside the shop they stopped for a breath.

“I don't think anyone saw us,” Theresa said.

“Except that woman and her son,” Jo replied, her face full of disgust. “I mean . . . T., we have to
do
something—”

“I know, Jo. I know. But we can't do anything until we get out of here and contact Uncle Sam. Okay?”

Jo nodded. “Yeah. Let's go.”

The corridors were damp and fetid. Being so close to the harbor brought in the moisture. The rats had to be huge. Luckily they didn't see any—it was too dark. Unfortunately that meant that they couldn't see any guards up ahead. They would literally run right into them. And that would be the end of them.

But Theresa and Jo knew they didn't have a choice. If they didn't make it out of this maze, then no one would ever know what was going on underneath that warehouse. It would open up as that recreation center, and pampered children of all ages would be playing games up there while people of all ages rotted away down here.

They
had
to make it out. It was that simple.

Soon Theresa felt a breeze from up ahead.

“Is that a way out?” Jo asked, peering through the gloom.

“I don't see any lights,” Theresa whispered. “And that air isn't exactly fresh. I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

With that, they stepped into a wide chamber. A few propane torches hung along the walls, but not much to see by. Yet Theresa saw all she needed to see.

They were in a cell block. Prison bars ran along both walls, and behind them hundreds of workers slept. But the conditions were hardly humane. They slept in tight groups on cloth mats woven from scraps. Bowls and jars lined the floors of the cells, but Theresa couldn't tell if the workers ate out of them, drank out of them, or . . .

“Oh no,” Jo moaned. “Oh, Theresa . . .”

Theresa squeezed Jo's hand. “Shhh, I know. Let's keep moving.”

They moved down the corridor between the cells, careful not to make a sound. It would've been bad enough to wake up the workers, who would no doubt beg to be set free. But it would've been worse to wake up the two
snoring guards at the far end of the chamber. They were stretched out in their chairs, feet and arms crossed, heads back and mouths open. Sawing away.