The oak tree felt solid and rough beneath Quinn's hands. Its bark scraped his palms as he began to climb, moving carefully, testing each handhold and foothold before trusting his weight. He stayed low against the trunk, using the thick foliage as cover, acutely aware of the open ground around the base of the tree. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence, every scrape of his boot seemed to echo across the compound.
He glanced up. The branch he needed was thick, sturdy-looking, reaching like a long arm out over the menacing gleam of the razor wire atop the chain-link fence. Below, the compound lay quiet under the afternoon sun, deceptively peaceful. But he saw the rooftop guards pacing, saw the slow circuit of the perimeter walker. Timing was everything.
He climbed steadily, pulling himself up into the denser leaves. Sweat trickled down his temples, stinging his eyes. His muscles strained. He wasn't carrying full combat gear now, but the backpack, the pistol tucked into his waistband, the knife – it all added weight, made movement awkward.
He reached the chosen branch. It was thick as his thigh, easily strong enough. He straddled it carefully, inching his way out along its length, leaves brushing against his face, the ground seeming to fall away beneath him. He was exposed now. If one of the rooftop guards happened to glance this way at the wrong moment…
He didn't let himself think about it. Focus on the task. He reached the point directly over the fence line, the razor wire glinting wickedly just a few feet below. The drop on the other side was maybe twelve feet onto packed dirt and sparse, weedy grass near the crumbling brick wall George had mentioned.
He peered down, scanning the landing zone. Clear. He checked the patrols again. Rooftop guards had their backs to him. Perimeter walker was on the far side of the compound. Now.
He swung his legs over, hanging beneath the branch by his hands. Took a deep breath. Let go.
He dropped silently, bending his knees as he hit the ground, rolling into the shadow of the old brick wall to absorb the impact. He came up instantly into a low crouch, K-Bar flashing into his hand, pistol drawn with the other, scanning the immediate area.
Nothing. Just discarded barrels, piles of rotting pallets, weeds growing thick in the neglected corner. The air smelled faintly of rust and decay, overlaid with the greasy scent of diesel from a nearby generator whose low chug he could now hear clearly. He was inside.
He pressed himself flat against the cool brick of the old wall, listening, letting his senses adjust. The generator hummed steadily nearby. Distant voices, muffled, came from the direction of the main building. The crunch of boots on gravel – the perimeter guard, still making his rounds, but on the opposite side of the shed Quinn could see fifty yards away.
He needed to deal with that guard first. Taking him out would clear the immediate perimeter, give Quinn more freedom to move towards the main building. He holstered the pistol, keeping the K-Bar ready. Better to stay silent as long as possible.
He moved like a shadow along the base of the wall, using the piles of junk for cover, heading towards the corner of the large shed the guard periodically circled. He reached the corner just as the crunching gravel footsteps grew louder. Quinn flattened himself against the corrugated metal wall of the shed, holding his breath.
The guard appeared, walking casually, rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked bored, scanning the fence line out of habit rather than alertness. He wore greasy jeans, a stained t-shirt, and a baseball cap pulled low. He stopped near the corner, pulling a crumpled cigarette pack from his pocket, fumbling one out.
As the guard turned slightly to cup his hands around the cigarette, lighting it, Quinn moved. Two silent strides closed the distance. His left arm snaked around the guard's chest, pinning his arms, hand clamping over his mouth before he could even register the attack. The K-Bar slid smoothly between the man's ribs, angled upwards, seeking the heart.
A muffled gasp. A violent, convulsive shudder. Quinn held tight, absorbing the brief struggle, easing the man down silently behind a stack of discarded tires as the life drained out of him. Quinn retrieved the cigarette that had fallen from the man's lips – still unlit. He quickly checked the man's pockets – nothing useful – then dragged the body deeper into the shadows between the shed and the brick wall, covering it loosely with a piece of torn, greasy tarpaulin.
One down inside the wire.
Now, the main building. George's map placed it roughly in the center of the compound, surrounded by open ground and smaller outbuildings. Quinn peered around the edge of the shed. He could see the large, utilitarian brick structure clearly now. Two stories high, flat roof where the guards paced, small, barred windows on the ground floor. The main entrance, visible from here, looked like heavy steel doors. Not promising.
He needed to find another way in, or at least get closer to assess the situation. He scanned the outbuildings scattered between his position and the main processing plant. Garages, storage sheds, a small, dilapidated structure that might have once been an office. Cover was sparse. He'd have to cross maybe sixty yards of open, debris-strewn ground to reach the nearest outbuilding that offered decent concealment near the target structure.
He watched the rooftop guards. Two of them, moving back and forth along opposite edges of the roof. Predictable patterns. If he timed it right…
He waited until both guards were near the far ends of their patrol routes, then broke cover, sprinting low and fast, weaving between piles of junk metal and discarded machinery parts. His boots crunched softly on the gravelly dirt. He reached the shadow of a rusted, empty fuel tank halfway across the open space, pressing himself against the cool metal, listening. No shouts. No alarms. He hadn't been seen.
He repeated the process, a dash across another stretch of open ground, ending behind a low concrete wall that might have been part of an old loading dock. He was closer now, maybe thirty yards from the main building's rear wall. From here, he could hear more distinct sounds – the hum of machinery from inside (refrigeration? generators?), muffled voices, occasionally a snatch of harsh laughter.
He scanned the rear wall. Fewer windows here, all barred. One heavy-looking steel door, likely locked tight. But then he saw it – a ventilation shaft cover, about two feet square, set low on the wall near the ground, partially obscured by overgrown weeds. The cover looked rusty, maybe loose.
He glanced up at the roof guards – still oblivious. He moved cautiously along the low wall, then made a final short dash to the rear wall of the building, dropping into the weeds beside the ventilation cover.
He examined it closely. Held in place by four large bolts, but the bolts and the metal around them were heavily corroded. He pulled his K-Bar. Using the tip, he scraped away some of the rust, then tried levering it under the edge of the cover. Metal groaned softly. He applied more pressure. With a rusty screech, one of the lower bolts popped free from its crumbling housing.
He froze, listening. No reaction from inside or above. He worked on the other lower bolt. It resisted, then snapped with a sharp crack. The bottom edge of the heavy steel cover sagged outwards. He carefully pried the top edges, the remaining bolts giving way more easily. The cover came loose in his hands. Heavy. Awkward.
He gently lowered the cover into the weeds, trying to muffle the sound. He peered into the revealed opening. Darkness. A square shaft leading into the building's foundation. The air wafting out felt cold, damp, and carried a faint, unpleasant metallic smell, along with something else… the stale scent of unwashed bodies. Prisoners?
This had to be it. Or at least, a way towards them.
He took one last look around the compound, checked the rooftop guards again. Still clear. He holstered his pistol, secured his knife, took a breath, and slid headfirst into the narrow, dark opening, wriggling forward into the unknown belly of Richter's stronghold.
The shaft was tight, dusty, cobwebs brushing against his face. It sloped downwards slightly. After about ten feet, it opened abruptly into a larger space. Quinn dropped silently onto a cold concrete floor. He clicked on his flashlight, keeping the beam low.
He was in a low-ceilinged, damp basement or crawlspace. Pipes snaked across the ceiling and down the walls. The air was heavy, still carrying that unpleasant mix of metallic tang and human misery. He swept the beam around. Empty crates, discarded machine parts, puddles of stagnant water. And, at the far end, maybe forty feet away, a sturdy-looking wooden door, bound with metal strips. Faint sounds came from beyond it – a low murmur, perhaps a cough.
He switched off the flashlight, letting his eyes adjust to the near-total darkness, broken only by faint slivers of light leaking from under the distant door. He moved towards it slowly, silently, pistol back in his hand now.
As he drew closer, the sounds became clearer. Low voices, hushed and fearful. A soft weeping sound, quickly stifled. Definitely people. Prisoners. Was Martha among them?
He reached the door. Listened intently. No guards seemed to be posted immediately outside it in the basement. He examined the door. Heavy wood, thick metal hinges. A large padlock securing a heavy bolt latch. No way to open it silently from this side.
He leaned closer, putting his ear against the wood. He could hear whispers now.
"...said Richter was furious..."
"...took the old woman... hope she's alright..."
"...anyone else coming?"
"...no chance... just gotta wait..."
Martha. They were talking about Martha. She was here. Or had been taken somewhere else inside?
Then, another sound reached him, not from inside the cell, but from further down the basement corridor, around a corner Quinn couldn't see from his position. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Approaching. And whistling – a tuneless, vaguely familiar country song.
Quinn melted back into the deepest shadows beside the door, pistol raised, every sense on high alert. A guard, coming to check the prisoners? Or something else? The footsteps grew louder, closer. A flickering beam of light preceded them, bouncing off the damp basement walls.
Just as the guard reached the corner, about to turn into the corridor leading to the locked door, Quinn heard Richter's distinctive drawl echo faintly from somewhere above, followed by coarse laughter. The approaching guard paused, tilting his head as if listening.
Quinn held his breath. This was it. An opportunity? A trap? He was deep inside, near the prisoners, but exposed if that guard came around the corner. He flattened himself further against the cold, damp wall, waiting.