Devil's Gate (NUMA Files 9)

“I’m still locked up,” Joe said.

“I know,” Kurt said, studying the key. “Hold on.”

He took a deep breath, went back into the water, and tried again. This time, he tried both cuffs but to no avail. The key could be forced in, but it didn’t slide in smoothly and it wouldn’t turn a millimeter once it was in.

Suddenly, he remembered Andras telling Kurt his answers were “good enough fo

r half.”

It hadn’t made sense at the time, but now it did. He’d given them one key. It matched Kurt’s handcuffs but not Joe’s. That was exactly the man Kurt remembered, never content just to defeat his foes but almost needing to torture those he’d vanquished, to cause pain before landing the killing blow.

Whatever other reasons Andras might have had for giving Kurt a chance to escape, this twisted little game had to be part of it. He could imagine Andras watching the scene play out in his mind and snickering.

Like some malevolent deity in Greek mythology, he’d granted Kurt a chance at life, but Kurt could only accept that gift at the expense of leaving his best friend to die.

No way on earth Kurt was going to let that happen. He went back inside, popping up once again.

“I think you’re misunderstanding the concept here,” Joe said. “When you come back in, I’m supposed to be free.”

“We have a problem,” Kurt said. “The key doesn’t fit.”

Joe stared at the key and then at Kurt. “The guy used a different key on mine. I saw it. The cuffs are different.”

Kurt stuffed the key in his pocket and began looking around in the cockpit for a tool to break Joe loose. He found a pair of screwdrivers, a set of Allen wrenches, and some other instruments — all of them miniaturized out of necessity to fit in the tiny cockpit of the sub.

“Anything in here that we could use for leverage?” he asked. Joe had built the sub. He’d know it far better than Kurt.

“Not really,” Joe said.

“What about the lift bar?” Kurt asked, referencing what Joe was cuffed to. “Can we remove it or release it somehow?”

Joe shook his head. “Not without taking half the sheet metal off first.”

“Can we break it?” Kurt asked, though he already knew the answer.

“It’s the hardest point on the sub,” Joe said, beginning to shiver from the cold water. “It’s welded right to the frame. It’s designed to support the sub’s entire weight when lifted out of the water.”

The two men stared at each other.

“You can’t get me free,” Joe said, voicing a dreaded realization.

“There’s got to be a way,” Kurt mumbled, thinking, and trying to fight what was becoming a mind-numbing cold.

“Not with anything we have on board,” Joe said. “You should go. Don’t stay down here and drown with me.”

“Why? So you could come back and haunt me?” Kurt said, trying to keep Joe’s spirits up. “No thanks.”

“Maybe there’s a boat on the surface or a helicopter,” Joe said. “Maybe someone got our message.”

Kurt thought about that. It seemed unlikely. And if Joe was right about how long the air supply would last on full blast, Kurt doubted they had more than fifteen minutes or so to wait. Not enough time for someone to get to them even if he could call for help.

He needed a different answer, a third way between leaving Joe to drown and dying down there alongside him. What he needed was a hacksaw or a blowtorch to cut through the lift bar or, better yet, through the chains on Joe’s cuffs.

And then it dawned on him. He didn’t need a full-on blowtorch, just something that burned hot and sharp. He remembered the green tank he’d seen in the Constellation’s cockpit when he’d rescued Katarina. Green tank meant pure oxygen. Pure oxygen burned hot and sharp. Modulated just right, that could be his cutting torch.

He flipped open a small compartment door. Inside were the Barracuda’s emergency supplies. Two diver’s masks, sets of fins, and two small air tanks; ones he now wished contained one hundred percent oxygen but were filled with standard air.

Twenty-one percent oxygen and seventy-eight percent nitrogen didn’t burn, but at least it could be breathed.