Xana went to work. She wasn’t scheduled, but it wasn’t unusual for her to show up anyway. She showered. She changed into her heavy coveralls and a loose-fitting T-shirt. There were two cots in an empty office that served as a makeshift infirmary. Naps were allowed on breaks, but her use of them was a source of tension between Xana and her boss. She didn’t always have a ride back to Figtree, which was almost an hour outside town. That meant showering and “resting” off the clock, then milling around the city until her shift the following night. She tried to get as much sleep as she could. Her boss had told her repeatedly that she could not live at the plant. She never understood why he would think she wanted to.
He stared at her, clipboard in hand, as she walked out of the loading dock and into the night. When he turned and went back in, she ducked around the row of silos and let Abby in a back door. The women made a beeline for the fields.
Xana looked back. “I should not have let you talk me into this.” She needed this job. Work wasn’t plentiful.
“Relax,” Abby urged in a hushed voice. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need.”
The pair made it over the fence—more a boundary than a barrier—and Xana stood by as Abby crouched in front of the single door at the rear of the building and tried to pick the lock. The reporter was dressed in black and had a heavy duffel strapped to her back.
Several quiet moments passed, and Xana clenched her fists. “I thought you knew how to do this?” She looked up. The building was huge, much taller than it seemed from across the cane field. It had walls of corrugated sheet metal punctuated in frosted glass, much of it cracked. It looked to be some kind of light industrial plant, although judging by the weeds poking through the asphalt, it hadn’t been used in some time.
“Tell me something,” Abby whispered. Her tools made scratching sounds on the door. “Why Declun McDoom? Of all the men in Guyana. I mean, I know he’s rich and ab-tastic and sometimes you just look at those eyes and . . . Yeah. But why would you have a kid with him? On purpose. He’s a total player.”
“When have you seen his abs?”
Abby paused. “Sometime when he was swimming. I guess.”
“The McDooms only swim in their private pool.”
“Well, duh. I was over for a party.”
Xana looked around in the dark. “Right.” She could see the lights of the plant in the distance, rising over the dark tips of the cane grass. Insects chirped. Clouds were moving in and covering the stars. It was going to rain. At least there didn’t seem to be anyone around.
“It was a social event. I was covering it for the paper.”
“Your newspaper covers pool parties?”
Abby stood. “You’re gonna have to break it.”
“What?”
She pointed to the door. “I can’t get it open.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said, but I can’t get it open.” Abby dropped her bag and pulled out a crowbar, just like the one Morin had used. She handed it to the big woman, but Xana just crossed her arms.
“What makes you think I can break it?”
Abby’s eyes widened. She looked at Xana’s arms pressed together in a knot on her chest. “Are you serious? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“No.” It was the truth. She avoided them.
“I swear . . . you’re the only person in this whole country who thinks you’re weak.”
“If I exert myself, then—”
“Yes. If you exert yourself. But this”—Abby motioned to Xana’s body—“means you can do a helluva lot before you actually have to exert yourself.”
“My heart—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Abby nodded impatiently. “You told me. When I wrote the article. About eight times.”
“Many bad things happened after that article. I should not have taken your money.”
“You needed it.”
Even with the discounts he offered her, Arthur Renkist wasn’t cheap. “It was a mistake.” She thought about the invoice in Abby’s bag. Part of her wanted to ask Abby to pay her rather than pay Renkist. She needed the money. She needed a place to stay. But she was too embarrassed by the whole situation. It wasn’t Abby’s problem. Americans never understood anyway. Money grew on trees there.
“Here, just put these on.” Abby pulled out a pair of leather protective gloves. They were long enough to cover Xana’s arms up to her elbow.
Xana looked at them. The hands were huge, big enough for her, which meant too big for just about anyone else, certainly for the skinny American. She gritted her teeth. She looked away. “You planned this.”
“What are you talking about?”
Xana took the gloves and slipped them on. “You don’t know how to pick a lock. You knew I would have to do this. That’s why you really needed me.”
“No, I didn’t! These were just a precaution. I thought there might be dogs or something.”
“Dogs?”
Abby shrugged. “You never know. It’s hard to tell from an aerial photo.”
“I very much don’t like you.” Xana crammed the crowbar into the door frame.
Abby nodded. “I know.”
Xana stopped. “Tell me where to find the man, the one who knows about Mama.”
Abby looked around. “Now is not—”
“Tell me now or I’m leaving.”
Abby smiled. Xana was learning. “You’re still gonna help, right? Your word?”
Xana sighed.
“Hand to God?”
She squinted.
“Fine. Like I said, his name’s Werm. He hangs out with his crew in front of The Fountain. It’s a liquor store.”
The big woman’s scowl grew. “I know it.” It was near her old neighborhood. Xana’s father used to send her to buy beer and marijuana. It was like hearing the man you were looking for was your next door neighbor. “You are such a manipulator.”
Abby made bug eyes and motioned to the door.
Xana pressed the crowbar between the door and the frame right at the deadbolt, then she heaved. The door opened with a crack and a piece of the lock clattered to the floor. For a moment there was silence, and Abby poked her head into the darkness.
Barking. It rolled from around the building, but it was getting closer. Fast.
“Shit!” Abby bolted inside as three large dogs took the corner and headed toward the women at full speed.
Xana followed and slammed the door shut. The dogs jumped against it, barking and snarling, and with the lock broken, Xana had to hold it closed. “You knew! You knew there were dogs!”
“No, I didn’t! It was just a good guess.” Abby dropped her bag and dug out her flashlight.
“What do I have to say?”
“What?”
“For your man to help me. What do I have to say to him?”
“Now? You want to talk about this now?”
Xana got angry. “I don’t know if I’ll get another chance.” When they were done, she never wanted to see the American again.
“Whatever. Look, we made it.” Abby motioned to the warehouse’s dark interior. It was vast and taller than it was wide.
Xana grabbed the American’s arm before she could walk away and leave the big woman stuck by the door. The dogs kept barking. The American tried to pull away, just as she’d done on the courthouse lawn, but Xana knew better and held firm.
“I don’t like people touching me.” Abby pulled again and again.
Xana yanked her close.
Abby glowered. “I’ll tell him you’re coming, alright. Jeez. It’s not like he’ll confuse you with someone else. You’re like eight feet tall. He owes me one and he’ll hook you up. Promise. Now let me GO.” Abby pulled hard, but Xana had already loosed her grip.
“Seven foot eight,” she corrected.
“Whatever.” Abby started walking and clicked her tiny flashlight on.
Xana watched stone-faced as the reporter walked into the warehouse. Near the door was a large silo on a metal bracket bolted to the floor. A spigot near the bottom dripped. Xana thought it must have been doing so for a long time. It had stained the concrete in a splotchy path to the nearest drain.
She looked up as the barking faded to scratching and frantic pacing. A pipe ran down from the ceiling. She guessed the tank collected rain. Not everywhere had running water, especially in the old days.
She looked back at the broken lock, then the crowbar in her hand. She jammed it under the door like a stop.
Abby had turned to the right and was moving down the central walkway. Fifty yards ahead, a metal staircase led to an overlook platform and a second-level office of some kind. Xana could see the beam from the flashlight darting about in the dark and hurried after it. She wanted to leave. Immediately.
She tip-toed behind the reporter. “How are we going to get past the dogs?”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about them getting in. Why aren’t you guarding the door?” The pair kept to half-whispers as they walked along symmetrical rows of unused machinery, like tractor engines.
Xana thought they were old looms. “I propped the door shut.”
“Well, are you sure it’s enough to hold them?” Abby’s voice dripped with venom.
The big woman knew she was being mocked. “I don’t know. I’m not a criminal. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Maybe you should go—”
Glass. Something crashed high above. Then clanging metal. It moved along a catwalk.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
A lone dog started barking.
Abby’s mouth hung open. “Did . . . Did that dog just come in through a sky light? How did it even get up there?”
“I don’t know!”
“Run.” The reporter took off for the stairs and ran up to the platform.
Xana turned and looked back down the long hall. In the darkness, she could make out a shape jumping from a staircase. It ran toward her at full speed. She turned and bounded after Abby.
The American watched Xana clear the steps in two bounds. She’d never seen anyone move that fast, and Xana’s size made it that much more unbelievable. She heard the snap of the dog’s teeth as it ran. She turned. “Jesus, he’s big.” Abby scurried behind Xana.
The second-level office was closed, barred by a metal door, like something off a naval vessel. It was shiny, as if added recently.
The dog came growling up the stairs. It was a mastiff mix, stocky and brindle-coated with a short, powerful muzzle and two-inch canines. Xana took a step back. The animal had to be 150-200 pounds, easy. It was certainly an effective deterrent. She never wanted to come back. Ever. Her heart beat faster.
It leapt and Xana raised her arms instinctively. The dog latched on to her gloves and tried to use its weight to pull her down, but Xana was too heavy. She could feel the strength of its bite through the thick leather as its head whipped back and forth. It hurt! Her adrenaline surged. She lifted and threw the dog free. It tumbled down the stairs with a yelp.
Xana grabbed the heavy metal door that barricaded the office. She lifted it right out of its hinges and pulled it free with a snap and a puff of plaster. She turned and held it aloft with both hands like a shield.
Abby’s mouth fell open.
The dog took a step back. It moved to the right, then to the left, but Xana kept it blocked with the wide metal door.
“Come on!” Abby backed into the dark office and hit the lights.
Xana ducked in and then propped the door against its frame as a barricade. The dog snarled and barked. It sniffed at the gap near the bottom and tried to move the door with its paw. It scratched.
Xana turned and stopped. “What is this place?”
The office was filled with white plastic containers. They were glossy with rounded edges and metal clasps. They were new and fancy and stacked three or four to the ceiling. They looked very high tech.
Abby shook her head in confusion. She reached out.
“Don’t touch it!” Xana objected in half-whisper. “We need to go.”
Abby stared. She pulled out her phone and took pictures. Each of the containers was marked with a symbol on the front. Three circles connected in the center by three lines. Some were red. Some were blue.
Xana frowned. “What does it mean?”
“How should I know?” Abby looked around. It was on all of the containers. “Wow, this is really freaky. Help me open one.”
“No!” Xana stood by the door as the dog pawed at the gap and growled.
Abby looked around. “There’s nothing here.” There was no desk, no files, no cabinet, no computer.
“What about that?” Xana pointed to a trash can in the corner.
Abby walked over and bent down. Papers. Receipts. Little was done electronically in Guyana. “Good call.” She opened her bag and scooped the rubbish in.
“Okay, let’s go.”
The reporter slung her bag over her back. She stood and looked at the white containers. “I have to.”
“Have to what?”
Abby looked at the red symbol. She traced her finger over it, then put her fingers in the slots and unhooked the latch. She lifted the lid. Inside were electronic components, like the parts to a large projector, resting in gray protective foam. It was several moments before Abby noticed the tiny lens, like a webcam, embedded in the lid of the box. “Oh, shit.” She slammed it shut.
Every container started beeping simultaneously. Red lights blinked. The dog stopped growling and ran. The beeping got faster.
Faster.
Faster.
“We should go.”
Xana lifted the door and the pair ran out. Then everything exploded.
A pair of fireballs. Blasts of concussive force ripped through the far end of the building, one on each side. BOOM.
Then another set, closer. BOOM.
The explosions swept back toward the office, preventing any escape.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Xana froze in fear. She’d never seen anything like it. She felt repeating waves of heat and force. She’d be blown to bits in 3 . . . 2 . . .
Xana pushed Abby down and back. She knelt and held the heavy door aloft as the concussion hit. The broad metal caught the blast like a sail taking the wind. It slammed them back. Xana lost her grip, but she had it at an angle, the door was wedged between the floor and the metal beams of the office wall. A ball of hot air rolled over them and singed the women’s hair. Their eyes and noses started watering heavily. Their ears rang. They coughed. There was smoke. Lots of smoke.
Abby covered her mouth with her sleeve. She yelled, but Xana could hear nothing over the ringing and the din from the growing fire. She was blinking so fast she could barely see. The whole building was ablaze.
Abby ran to the stairs. The heat from the growing inferno played havoc with the air flow, and Xana felt herself buffeted back and forth as waves of intense heat rose and were pushed aside. A pillar of flame rolled into the air in front of her and dissipated. She lost track of the American.
Xana covered her face with her arm. She was thankful for the gloves. They had kept her fingers from burning, but the leather was hot, and Xana shook her hands. She stumbled forward toward the stairs. The fire raged on both sides, consuming the building. She ran and bounded the length of it.
Smoke billowed out the open door, but when she moved for it, she heard yelling over the furor, as if someone was calling to her.
Abby.
With her arms to her face, Xana turned and walked around a twenty-foot fire. It raged over an oil slick leaking from a ruptured barrel. She heard the noise again, then she saw. It wasn’t the reporter. It was the dog. It was trapped between the encroaching flames and the corrugated metal wall on the far side of the building. It was helpless. The sounds it made weren’t so much cries of fear as for help. It yelped an almost human-like gibberish, calling for its owners, whom it had served faithfully, to come and save it. It howled and barked. It had nowhere to go. It would be baked alive.
Xana caught the animal’s eye. It stared at her, and she thought about AJ, alone and confused and wondering where his mother was and why she didn’t come for him. The dog had merely been defending its territory. She was the intruder. She had no reason to be there. It was going to die because of what she had done. It was going to die because of her.
Xana turned and looked at the rain silo. It was tall and bolted to the floor in four places. She walked around to the back and braced her back against the wall. It was hot, and getting hotter. She lifted one foot and pressed against the metal cylinder until she had her balance. Then she lifted the second and did the same.
With her arms spread for support, Xana did exactly what the doctors said not to, what she had spent the last eight years avoiding. She strained. She pushed as hard as she could, and then more. She ground her teeth. Metal groaned. She pushed harder. A rusted bolt bent with a snap. She yelled and pushed harder still.
The silo broke free from its mount. It hung at an angle in the air for a moment before falling across the fire and crashing through the far wall. The sheet metal bent and tore at the seam. Water spilled free, forcing the fire back.
Hands on her knees, Xana panted and tried to catch her breath through the searing heat. She saw the dog scramble, jump, and push off the silo. It leapt through the tear in the metal and out into the night.
Xana started coughing. The new opening changed the airflow through the building. Smoke billowed. In seconds, Xana could barely see. It burned her eyes and filled her lungs. She coughed and coughed. She felt light-headed. Even with her lids shut, her eyes watered as if they’d been scratched with needles. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear over the ten thousand crackles of the blaze. She could feel nothing but heat. The door was mere feet from her, but she didn’t know which direction. She lost her balance and stumbled and fell.
Just before she lost consciousness, Xana felt her body being pulled in short tugs.