At the stairs, Somers swore.

“The boards have been weakened,” Somers said, pointing to a hairline fracture on the lowest tread. “Keep your feet close to the wall.”

“This guy is some kind of fucking asshole,” Dulac grumbled. His face was gray, and dark hollows ringed his eyes. He was slumped against the wall. When he noticed Somers’s gaze, he straightened.

Somers started up the stairs. He was so busy watching his footing that he almost broke the tripwire laid halfway up. He froze, held out a hand behind him, and stepped carefully over. Then he adjusted his weight and took the next step.

“No,” Dulac shouted, “wait!”

Somers felt the second tripwire pull tight against his shin.

Hands grabbed him.

A gun fired.

He fell.

He connected with Dulac, and through the ringing in his ears, he heard Dulac scream. Then they fell together, the three of them, and came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Somers scrambled upright, patting himself, checking for a gunshot wound. Nothing. That was a miracle; Dulac had managed to drag him clear of the shotgun blast. Dulac—

Dulac was on the ground, blood staining his shirt and pooling under him.

“He stepped into the first tripwire,” Yarmark was shouting. “He didn’t even think, he just rushed up and grabbed you.”

Squatting, Somers found the wound: a spear trap had caught Dulac in the arm, punching through his shirt and flesh. To judge by the amount of blood, Somers guessed it had nicked an artery.

Dulac was breathing through gritted teeth, his eyes wide and rolling up into his head.

“His arm—” Somers was saying.

But Yarmark was already stripping off his shirt.

“Find me a stick,” Yarmark said. “Anything.”

Somers grabbed a broken slat from one of the ancient crates and passed it to Yarmark.

“The artery,” Somers said.

“I know,” Yarmark said. He wrapped the shirt around Dulac’s arm, thrust the slat through it, and began tightening the tourniquet.

Dulac screamed.

“That’s right,” Yarmark said, the scrawny kid leaning into the slat, forcing the tourniquet tighter. “Tell me you’re alive.”

Dulac screamed again, and then his eyes got wide and he ran out of air.

“Jesus Christ,” Somers said.

“Go,” Yarmark said.

“Radio for help,” Somers said.

“For the love of God,” Yarmark said, flashing an irritated grin. “I got this.”

Somers nodded. He squeezed Dulac’s hand. Dulac was breathing harshly, and he didn’t seem to register the touch.

A voice boomed out above them, distorted by the echoes.

Dulac’s fingers tightened around Somers’s. His dark eyes moved blindly.

“Give the asshole enough rope to hang himself,” he whispered.

It took a moment for Somers to understand. Then he got out his phone, started the voice recorder, and loped up the stairs.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

JULY 6

SATURDAY

5:37 AM

HAZARD WAS ALMOST THERE. He paused in one of the cramped corridors, smelling brick dust and mold and a rotting stench he associated with wood and plaster that had suffered decades of water damage. Sweat stippled his face, coated his back, stuck his t-shirt to his chest. A cut on his right arm bled steadily in spite of the bandage; Hazard had misjudged a strand of concertina wire. Adrenaline still pumped steadily through him, clearing his head, souring his stomach. He knew he was close to reaching the Keeper. He also knew he was exhausted and, in spite of feeling clearheaded, more and more likely to make a mistake.