Chapter 7
I grabbed the cane. With a hard, twisting motion, I pulled on the carved handle.
With a sharp rasp of steel against steel, a twelve-inch, needle-thin rapier blade slid out from the hollow wood shaft. The metal was dark, tempered carbon steel, remarkably light and incredibly sharp.
"What are you doing?" the scarred man gasped, watching me through bloodshot eyes. "You can't puncture the cases! If you breach the outer shell, it will release everything instantly!"
"I'm not puncturing the cases," I said, my voice eerily calm as adrenaline washed over my brain, sharpening my focus to a single, crystal-clear point. "I'm cutting the bus's main line."
In modern commercial buses, the pneumatic luggage doors and the cabin ventilation systems are powered by a central high-pressure air line that runs from the engine compartment along the inner left wall of the luggage bay.
I turned around on my knees, facing the rear wall of the compartment.
Running through the dark corner was a thick, black rubber hose reinforced with braided steel wire—the main pneumatic control feed. If I could sever that hose, the sudden drop in pressure would trigger the bus's emergency mechanical safety locks, instantly shutting down the engine and sealing the ventilation dampers permanently.
It was a long shot. If the pressure drop failed to trigger the mechanical override, I would merely trap us in the dark forever.
00:22... 00:21... 00:20...
The alarm screen was flashing wildly now, the red light so intense it painted the entire bay in the color of fresh blood.
I gripped the steel handle of the blade with both hands, ignoring the agonizing scream of pain from my left arm. I wedged the point of the blade behind the black rubber hose, using the wall of the bay as a fulcrum.
"Hold on!" I roared.
I put every remaining ounce of my strength into a desperate, wrenching lever motion.
CRACK-HISS!
The blade sliced through the reinforced rubber.
A violent, deafening explosion of pressurized air erupted from the severed line, blasting cold air, rubber shrapnel, and dust directly into my face. The force of the decompression kicked me backward, slamming my head against the aluminum floor.
High above, the deep, rhythmic thrumming of the bus's diesel engine suddenly shuddered, sputtered twice, and died with a loud mechanical clatter.
The overhead ventilation fans whined to a dead stop.
Inside the luggage bay, the red LED screens on the silver cases flickered, turned green for a fraction of a second, and then went completely dark as the emergency mechanical lockouts engaged, sealing the bio-hazard valves shut.
Silence returned. Heavy, suffocating, absolute silence.
I lay on my back, gasping for air, staring up into the pitch-black darkness. My chest heaved. Cold sweat soaked my shirt.
We were still locked in the dark. My arm was broken. My body was battered. But the air in my lungs was clean.
The bus hadn't left the bay.
Then, from outside the metal doors, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching across the wet concrete.
Not the heavy, tactical boots of Officer Maria Rice.
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It was the rhythmic, measured crunch of multiple pairs of heavy police boots, accompanied by the sharp, barking commands of a SWAT team leader.
"POLICE! COVER THE PERIMETER! GET THE DRIVER OUT OF THE CAB! SECURE THE LUGGAGE BAYS!"
