23. Chapter Twenty-Three #3
“I see it now,” called Coleman, shading his eyes with a hand.
“Laid out like an architect’s blueprint.
Over there is a regimented row of concrete flooring that probably housed buildings.
And there’s the outline of a small road leading through the centre.
There’s even a sunken site over there. Did they have a swimming pool? ”
“A gymnasium. That’s where the executions took place.”
“Holy crap.”
I scan the grounds briefly until my gaze settles on the last spot he indicated, to the place I used to train ruthlessly and where my fellow Knights were allegedly pitted against one another to the death.
“Are those office buildings over there?” asks Coleman. “The modular units still standing? Do you remember?”
Memories are flooding back. I have to close my eyes, to take a few steadying breaths to staunch them and centre myself. I focus on Romano’s words. ‘Stay alert and pay attention.’ Once I get my thoughts under control, I refocus on the command block.
“Those were off limits. Lodgings and offices used by our instructors.”
“Might be a good place to start a search,” he says, jumping down.
On the way over to the building, I stop to view and absorb other sections, to help reinforce my recall, while Coleman snaps pictures.
My mind begins to form a true picture of the camp from the remains—the dormitory where I slept, the dreary ablutions hut with its cold-water showers, the mess hall with its long communal bench tables, and, of course, the gymnasium.
The concrete steps that lead down into the sunken hall are now speckled with weeds, and the expansive exercise floor is covered with rough grass and small bushes.
At the command building, I remember the doors used to have a card access entry system.
Instructors could be identified by the red-ribboned lanyards hanging around their necks.
The door we access is hanging open, the inside gloomy.
When we reach the opening, Coleman steps back to take a couple more pictures and allows me to enter first.
A short corridor leads into an area that would have been an open office space.
Although the windows are painted dark grey, and most of the corners are in shadow, part of the roof has collapsed, and daylight provides enough illumination to inspect the room.
There are no longer any desks, just empty shelving and a few overturned filing cabinets.
Nothing looks familiar here, and I wonder if I was ever allowed inside.
I’m so engrossed in the sight and the memories flooding my mind that I completely miss the wet footprints on the floor.
As I step farther, a clipped, authoritative voice emerges from the shadows. A figure in a dark uniform materialises, holding a gun. I can see by his stance and the confident way he holds the weapon that he is trained.
“This is as far as you go.”
I scan the area around me, but find nothing to use to defend myself. My gun is hidden in my jacket pocket. Any sudden movement might prompt them to fire.
“Gabriel?” says Coleman.
“Don’t move, Coleman. He’s armed. Do exactly as he says,” I say, before addressing the assailant. “Coleman is my driver. He’s unarmed. Let him go.”
Another gun-carrying man emerges from the shadows. I briefly chastise myself for allowing Coleman to accompany me and for letting my guard down but this only lasts a moment before I refocus my mind and concentrate on how to deal with the threat.
“Take the other one outside,” says the first.
“Gabriel?” comes Coleman’s voice from behind me.
“Go with them. I can handle this.”
“But I—”
“Coleman. Honey. Go.”
After a brief pause, I hear footsteps retreating. I hope he gets the reference but I also pray that I haven’t put him in any danger.
“What do you want with me?” I ask the remaining man.
“Nothing. I was instructed to wait here and bring you to him.”
“To whom?” I ask.
The man waves the gun at a point over my shoulder.
“To him.”
I can only assume that somewhere in my early training, a warning mantra had been drummed into me, never to turn my back on a person holding a weapon of any kind, especially one that’s trained on me.
Even with my memory loss, the ingrained lesson served me well on the streets.
But I have also been taught to listen for movement, for the approaching steps of an assailant—or in this case, the soft click of a stick on concrete and another person breathing in the dank space.
I choose to turn around.
The man is old, probably in his mid-to-late eighties, yet his features are familiar.
Initially, there’s a strange disconnect, like seeing a face in a news article and recognising the person but not connecting them to their celebrity status.
This man is lean, with a full head of hair swept back from his lined face.
There is a gauntness about him and an unhealthy pallor to his skin that I know was not apparent before.
He used to be as rigid as a monument, but now he has a marked stoop as though wind-battered, and is propped up by a silver-tipped walking cane.
The hand that holds the cane is skeletal, the skin age-blotched. Death stalks him.
“Welcome home, Five.”