I nodded, then turned to Paige. "Okay, so we know it's a five-digit number. Can you hack into the system? Break the code?"
"Not without a laptop and a lot of time." She glanced at Adam, who'd strode out of earshot, then she lowered her voice. "He's wired. I don't think he slept much last night."
"He'll be fine," I said. "Let's check out that keypad again."
We returned to the door.
"Well?" Adam said. "Do we have a plan yet?"
"We're working on it," I said.
"What about you two?" Paige asked. "Can you turn into wolves and get us in?"
"How?" Clay said. "Whine and scratch at the door until someone opens it?"
"Is that all we've got?" Adam snapped. "What about the backup plan?"
"Cool it," Clay said. "We're working on one."
"Working on one? You mean we don't have one?"
Paige laid her hand on Adam's arm. He shook it off.
"What the hell are we standing around for?" he said. His voice tightened, taking on a shrill note of panic. "We have to hurry. Using that scanner probably set off an alarm. Even if it didn't, someone's bound to come looking for those two guards. Goddamn it!"
The whites of Adam's eyes suffused with red, as rage replaced panic. The smell of fire flared. Clay grabbed Adam by the back of the shirt just as Adam's fist connected with the door. There was a loud pop. The door shimmered. Clay hauled Adam back and threw him to the ground, then pushed Paige and me out of the way and stood over Adam.
"Control it, Adam," Clay said. "Concentrate."
Adam lay facedown on the ground. He balled his outstretched hands into fists, grabbing handfuls of grass and earth. The grass sizzled and smoked. When Adam started to stand, Clay put his foot on his back.
"Got it under control?" Clay asked. "I'm not letting you up until you do."
Adam nodded and Clay backed off, but stayed tense. Adam sat up, buried his face in his hands, and groaned like a college freshman with a killer hangover. Then he gave his head a sharp shake and looked at us.
"Sorry, guys," he said. "I didn't mean--" His head jerked up. "Did I do that?"
I followed his gaze and saw that the exit door was open. I blinked, looked again, and realized it wasn't open. It was gone. Only a pile of ash remained.
"Holy shit," Paige whispered. "You incinerated it."
"I did?" Adam stood, walked to the door, and touched the edge of it, then yelped and jerked his hand away. Red welts emblazoned his fingertips. He grinned. "Look, Ma, no door!" He punched the air and whooped. "Guess I'm not your average fire demon after all. See this door, Paige? Remember it next time you decide to bad-mouth me."
"Congratulations," Clay said. "Now get the hell inside."
Adam nodded and tried to plaster on a serious face, but his grin slipped through. Clay motioned for him to lead the way. As he stepped over the pile of ash, he stooped and raked his fingers through it, then turned to Paige and grinned, eyes shining. She smiled back, then prodded him through the doorway. We were in.
Our next task was to disable the alarm and radio system. From my trips to and from the infirmary, I knew the communication center was located on the second floor, around the corner from the elevator. Several guards were on duty there at all times, manning the equipment. Tucker's office adjoined the guard station. With any luck, he'd be there. Killing Tucker was another high-priority job. Of all the remaining staff, Tucker was the most dangerous, not for any personal qualities--I didn't know the man well enough to assess that--but because he commanded the troops. When someone discovered that we'd infiltrated the compound, Tucker would rally them to action. Without Tucker and without the radio system, any sense of order among the guards would break down--or so we hoped. The only other person who could possibly control the men would be Winsloe. The guards might not like or respect Winsloe, but he paid their wages, which they wouldn't receive if they cut and ran at the first sign of trouble. So Winsloe would be next on our target list.
Once Winsloe and Tucker were dead, we'd be more concerned with fighting individual guards than tracking down the remaining staff members. Oh, sure, Tess might pull a nail file on us, but I could probably take her. That left Matasumi, a guy who couldn't fight his way out of a locked bathroom. Oh, right, I was forgetting someone. The sorcerer. Paige assured me she'd know Katzen if she saw him. Witches intuitively recognized sorcerers ... or so she'd heard, though she'd never met one herself. Very comforting.
We'd planned to take our time moving from the exit to the guard station, avoiding confrontations, taking side routes if necessary. The incinerated exit door kiboshed that plan. We had to get to the guard room and disable the radios before anyone saw the damage.
Fortunately, we arrived at the communication center without incident. Our luck continued when we found only two guards manning the station. One was chomping on a granola bar. The other was doing the crossword in a week-old newspaper. We could only see slivers of their profiles, but it was enough to send a cold thrill through me. I smiled. These were two guards I recognized, two I'd never forget: Ryman and Jolliffe, the men who'd helped Winsloe hunt Lake, who'd played key roles in Armen's death, who'd taken such pride and vicious pleasure in their jobs. And now this dedicated duo was so engrossed in their work that Clay and I managed to sneak up behind them without either noticing. The temptation to shout "Boo!" and watch them hit the rafters was almost too great. But we were in a hurry. So Clay grabbed Ryman in a headlock and I snapped Jolliffe's neck as he pondered a nine-letter synonym for stupidity. We needed to keep one guard alive and had chosen Ryman, hoping his mouth would be too full of granola for him to scream. It was. Unfortunately, it was so full that when Clay grabbed him by the throat, he almost choked to death, thereby necessitating a flurry of discussion over the proper way to perform the Heimlich maneuver. It was a sad state of affairs when you had to save someone's life before you killed him.
Ryman finally coughed up a soggy chunk of oats, then let loose a stream of vulgarity.
"Now that doesn't sound like 'thank you,'" Clay said, clamping his hand over Ryman's mouth.