As the pressure lessened again, King gave a mighty pull. He slid forward, but his knees were torn apart. He shouted in pain. The flashlight fell from his mouth and rolled free, following the spiral around and down. King watched the light fade.

But then it stopped with a thunk.

That’s either good news, or bad news, King thought. His torn-up knees ached with every slide forward, but with more room to move, he was able to position his legs so his wounds were off the floor. He moved steadily downward, following the spiral. As he descended, the light from his lost flashlight grew brighter.

“You’re bleeding,” Alexander said. He couldn’t see King’s wounds, but the smell of blood was filling the tight tunnel.

“I’ll be fine,” King replied. “We’re almost at the bottom.”

“What do you see?”

King stopped as he saw the flashlight ahead. The tunnel leveled out and continued in a straight line. He pushed forward, not knowing how far the tunnel stretched. When it grew smaller he could no longer lift his head up. Still he pushed forward, not knowing what lay ahead. It could be an exit, a trap, or a squeeze too tight to fit through. As it was he could feel his back scraping against the ceiling with each pull forward. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his toes, he continued forward for ten minutes. Then his flashlight, aimed toward the side wall, showed an open space. He picked up his head and found a small chamber. He quickly pulled himself free of the small tunnel and checked out the space, which was about the size of an economy car interior. While the extra space was nice, the light gray wall blocking his path crushed his hopes. Crouching, King moved to the wall. As Alexander exited the tunnel behind him he placed his hand on the smooth surfaced wall. Modern concrete.

They were trapped.

Again.

Chapter Fifty-Four

FIFTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.

“YOU WANT TO what!” Boucher said, as he stomped back and forth in the Oval Office.

Duncan had spent every waking minute working through his options. The world needed defending. The Chess Team lacked a handler. His skill set—brilliant strategist, resistant to pressure, extreme determination—fit his role as president. But it was all for nothing when political chest thumping and loud-mouth pundits could tie his hands. He had come to a decision and just dropped the bomb on Boucher, who would be one of few people to ever know the truth.

“I can’t do it, Tom,” Boucher said.

Duncan could see Boucher working through the proposal despite his vocal opposition. He waited, leaning back on the couch. Boucher’s pacing slowed, which meant he was coming to his final decision; everything said before then was just blown-off steam.

Boucher stopped pacing.

He sat down on the couch across from Duncan.

His mustache twitched a few times. “Damnit, Tom.”