Chapter Twenty-Two Black Mesa
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Black Mesa
The stolen Tollhouse truck had better suspension than anything Dustline owned.
Rhett resented this.
"Crime pays," Eden said from the passenger seat.
"Apparently."
"You could steal more."
"Leadership advice?"
"Personal development."
They drove west through low badlands.
Saint Mercy passed to the south.
No sign of Sabra.
That worried Rhett.
By noon, Black Mesa rose ahead, a flat-topped block of basalt above white flats.
The spill channel ran along its northern foot.
Eden found the service road easily.
Too easily.
Tire tracks covered it.
Fresh.
"She's ahead."
Rhett stopped.
"How many?"
Eden climbed out and studied the ground.
"Two trucks. Four bikes. Maybe more."
"Can you tell that from tracks?"
"Can you tell an engine problem from a sound?"
"Point."
They hid the truck behind a rock shelf and continued on foot.
Rhett's shoulder had improved enough to carry the rifle normally.
Eden's limp remained when she got tired.
He had stopped commenting.
Not because he did not notice.
Because she knew.
The spill gate appeared around the mesa bend.
A concrete tower sat above a dry channel.
Tollhouse had erected a pump rig beside it.
Black hoses ran from a drilled access port to three tanker trucks.
Water already moved.
Sabra had found Reservoir Three.
Rhett's stomach dropped.
Eden swore under her breath.
"Can they drain it?"
"Not quickly. But they can establish a controlled outlet and claim access."
"Claim to whom?"
"Anyone with guns."
Good point.
Sabra stood on the tower with two technicians.
Caro's film lay on a folding table.
Eden stared at it.
"She has the west gate."
"Can we shut the pump?"
"Yes."
"Quietly?"
"No."
"Consistent."
They watched.
One Tollhouse truck left west, full.
A second backed into position.
Rhett counted guards.
Nine.
Too many.
Eden pointed to the channel.
"The spillway has inspection tunnels."
"Where?"
"Under the tower."
"Access?"
She looked at him.
He knew before she answered.
"Probably."
He closed his eyes.
They circled north.
An old culvert opened behind a line of rocks.
Locked grate.
No blue key.
Rhett examined hinges.
"Give me ten minutes."
"We have eight."
"Why?"
Eden pointed.
A dust line approached from the east.
Convoy.
Rhett raised binoculars.
Blue cloth.
Glass Road.
Esme had not gone to Pump Six.
She had come west.
"Why?"
Eden's face tightened.
"Sabra."
Radio misinformation.
Fake route.
Or Esme had heard about Black Mesa and decided to see.
Either way, Glass Road was about to drive into nine Tollhouse guns.
Rhett looked at the grate.
Then the approaching convoy.
"Go warn them."
Eden shook her head.
"You need me for the gate."
"I need you more if they're alive."
"Rhett—"
"Go."
She studied him.
Not argument.
Assessment.
Then she handed him Caro's blue key.
"This won't fit."
"I know."
"Don't improvise with water."
"I fix machines."
"This is not a machine."
"Everything is a machine if you're sufficiently disrespectful."
Eden almost smiled.
Then she ran east.
Rhett turned to the grate.
He had spent years thinking route people made paths.
Maybe leadership did too.
Sometimes the route was simply who went where first.
He put the wrench on the hinge.
Then he heard an engine behind him.
Not east.
North.
A Tollhouse bike dropped into the wash.
The rider saw Rhett.
Rhett saw him.
Neither had time for subtlety.
The rider reached for a pistol.
Rhett threw the wrench.
It struck the man's wrist.
The pistol fired into rock.
Rhett tackled him.
They hit hard.
His ribs protested.
The rider was younger and faster.
Rhett was angrier.
He drove an elbow into the man's jaw, took the pistol, and shoved him face-down.
"How many in the tower?"
The rider spat blood.
Rhett pressed the pistol to the ground beside his ear and fired.
The sound thundered through the culvert.
"Next one wastes ammunition closer."
The rider laughed nervously.
"Nine."
"Sabra?"
"Tower."
"Charges?"
"What?"
"Explosives."
The man's face changed.
Rhett went cold.
"Where?"
No answer.
Rhett grabbed his collar.
"Where?"
"Spill gate."
"Why?"
"Insurance."
Sabra would collapse the gate rather than lose control.
Contaminate access.
Seal millions of gallons behind rubble.
Rhett bound the rider with his own belt and ran for the grate.
Eight minutes had become none.
He wedged the stolen pistol into the hinge.
Fired twice.
Metal cracked.
Rhett kicked.
The grate opened.
He entered the inspection tunnel alone.