The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) by Nicholas Erik Page B

of the sewage system.
    That gleaming monolith had to be a front. There was just no other explanation.
    “Mitchell was headed to the plant with the box,” Keene said, rolling up the schematic and putting it back in the tube. He glanced down the eastern corridor, tracing the strobing light coming from the phone’s flash. It didn’t look any different than the other sewer terrain, but it held the key to Mitchell’s mission.
    And unlocking the mysterious prism’s power.
    Keene offered his hand to the tired Strike. She accepted with a begrudging sigh.
    “Maybe he just really loved clean water,” Strike said as she struggled to her feet.
    “Someone’s out in that plant, spying on Tillus,” Keene said. “And this sewer’s our only way in.”
    “What do you think is inside?”
    “Answers.”
    The pair continued east, fending off the offensive odors in pursuit of the truth.

15 | Resistance
    “They really need to address the security around here,” Keene said. “Color me unimpressed.”
    Keene put his hand through the hole in the floor tiles. With no easily accessible grates, access to the waterworks had been a little trickier than breaking into the morgue. But a few taps on the crumbling ceiling had yielded some spots that sounded weak.
    Weak enough to bust through with a pistol grip.
    He brushed the cracked material away until the hole was large enough to squeeze through. Then he pushed through first, leaving Strike below.
    “Grab my arm.”
    “Yeah, like you can lift me.”
    “Just do it.”
    Keene felt Strike’s weight pull down on his arm. He strained and lifted her through the makeshift entryway. She collapsed, slumping against a sagging desk chair.
    “That was a lot of effort,” Strike said.
    “I’m the one who did the lifting.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around the small room. “Where are we?”
    Keene searched the room for clues. Plain, cream colored tiles covered with cheap rugs, tan walls and a nearby slightly rusting desk suggested an administrative office.
    “It didn’t say, but—”
    “Shh.” Strike brought a finger to her lips and gave Keene a stern look. Voices filtered towards them from a nearby hallway, indiscernible but uncomfortably close.
    Keene’s nails dug into the rubber stock. He began to raise the gun towards the nearby window. Three bullets left. Time to make them count. Strike slapped his arm down.
    “Great plan.”
    “I wasn’t going to kill them,” Keene said. Although upon further consideration, he wasn’t a deadeye shot, so even aiming for the legs could destroy an artery. “Just in case.”
    Strike pointed towards the corner of the room. A security camera tilted and zoomed, clearly aimed directly at them.
    “Their entire security team is probably converging on us right now,” Strike said.
    Keene looked back at the busted tile. Maybe heading back to the sewers was a good idea. He sat up to look out the room’s sole window, then dove back to the floor.
    “Lots of guns,” he said. “Too many.”
    “See what I was saying? I don’t want to get shot. Again.”
    “They might have medical care on site,” Keene said.
    “I had the staples in for a month. My stomach hurt until our innkeeper friend gave me that tea. You know what that feels like, walking around like you just got the wind knocked out of you all the time?” Strike said.
    “Just saying.”
    “Never again. And I didn’t mention the scar.”
    “I’ve been shot, too. Stabbed.” Boots echoed in the hall, marching in rhythm. “It wasn’t so bad.”
    “All right, Rambo, you head out and see what happens. I’m happy where I am.”
    “Thought you had my back, partner .”
    “Not when it comes to suicide,” Strike said.
    “Duly noted.” Keene held the gun up in front of his face, staring at the camera with arched eyebrows. He hoped that his expression accurately conveyed that he had little interest in a gunfight. Then he tossed the pistol to the side. The errant throw took down a wall