I resisted the urge to go through the second hole to see what lay above, and moved to the storeroom’s door instead. It was locked, but a quick burst from fiery fingers soon fixed that. The next room was vast and seemingly empty. I flared brighter, fanning the orange-yellow glow of my flames out farther. There were no more gaping holes in either the floor or the ceiling on this level, but a quick check revealed both had been weakened in several spots. There was also some sort of black, almost oily-looking moisture dripping from the ceiling.

Trepidation stirred, though I had no idea why. If it were in any way dangerous or explosive, my flames would have set it off. I turned around and saw, down at the very end, a rather ornate door. I blasted it open with flames and headed in. It was an office—a huge one—that stretched the entire width of the building. A rather expensive-looking teak desk that had to be at least twelve feet long dominated the central area of the room, and there was a no-less-impressive executive chair behind it. Several smaller chairs sat in front of the desk and, to the right, there was a seating area complete with a coffee machine, its size rivaling that of the one Jackson had installed in our office. To the left of the desk there was, rather surprisingly, a sleeping area. Behind that was an exit, somewhat oddly positioned given that the bed made access difficult.

I did a quick check of the entire room, looking for anything out of place, or anything that suggested there might be another trap waiting. I didn’t see anything, so I shifted back to human form and walked around the bed to inspect the oddly placed door. It was locked, but a quick spurt of heat took care of it. Behind it was a six-foot corridor and a second door. But this wasn’t any old door—it was a heavy-duty metal one, and it rather resembled an air lock.

Answers, that inner part of me whispered again.

Hoping the whisper was right but partly suspecting it was merely delusional, I stepped forward and tried to open the second door. The handle didn’t budge and, after a quick search, I discovered why. There was a key-coded lock and scanner behind a cleverly hidden panel on the right—and it was the sort that required not only the right number sequence but also the appropriate fingerprint scan.

If it required Luke’s fingerprints, we were well and truly up that proverbial creek.

“Houston, we have a problem.”

“I’m on my way up,” Jackson said at the same time as Sam asked, “What sort?”

“A big fucking air-lock-armed-with-a-scanner sort of problem. I can try shorting out the control box with fire, but—”