18.
Once down the stairs, it’s a
straight shot through a narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel. The dimly lit tunnel runs
for maybe a half mile before it ends at another staircase, this one shaped like
a corkscrew that wraps around a concrete pilaster. When we reach the top, we
face yet another steel door. The door is not only closed, it bears no opener.
Anya turns to me, her smooth, tan
face beginning to show the first signs of physical stress. Judging by the newly
formed creases around her almond-shaped eyes.
“What now?” she inquires.
“Try knocking,” I suggest.
“Knock,” she says. “That’s your
solution? Just knock like we’re asking the next door neighbor if we can borrow
some sugar?”
“Got a better idea, sweetness?”
Raising up her right arm, she makes
a fist with her hand and raps o
