From Part 3
Lois stormed, with as much vigour as her thumping head would allow, into Perry’s office. “What’s with Kent?” she demanded.
Perry looked up from his desk. “Kent?”
“He’s off on a story. By himself.”
That annoying little know-it-all smirk settled on Perry’s face. “I thought you didn’t want to work with him.”
“I don’t,” she barked. “But I do want the best stories and if he has one, I should be on it.”
“I have no idea what he’s working on,” Perry said.
She considered him for a long moment, but his eyes didn’t waver.
Lois slumped into the chair. “What could he *possibly* have?” she asked. “He has no sources, no contacts, no idea.”
“Then he’ll probably be back later with *no* story,” Perry said reasonably.
That notion eased her headache a little. That would teach him to go off without her. “But, Perry –“
“Let him go,” Perry said. “Let’s see what he can do. Meanwhile, I want you to get down to the school and cover the opening of their new gymnasium.”
“A school gym?” she said in disgust. “Come on, Chief, surely you’ve got something better than that?”
“No, I haven’t. I was going to send Kent, but seeing he’s not here, you can do it.”
Lois burst out of his office, ignoring how much her head protested. Lois Lane covering a school gym opening! This was most definitely, undeniably, absolutely and totally his fault too!
PART 4
Maintaining a considerable distance from his targets, Clark located the four off-shoot tunnel openings. Each looked innocent - insignificant covers which blended into their surroundings. You could walk past them every day and never wonder what lay beneath.
He neared the warehouse and x-rayed through its walls. It was huge and empty other than one cabinet near a side wall. He noticed a security camera in each internal corner. The warehouse was neither rundown nor particularly new. It had a large sliding door at the front with ‘Company 110’ painted above it. There were other, smaller doors on both sides.
Clark left the warehouse and went to the LexCorp building. One of the adjacent office blocks had an observation deck. He rode the elevator and then gazed across at Luthor’s building, the top of which towered above him. He lowered his glasses and looked underground. He located the tunnel and saw access ladders into a below-ground floor.
A short passage extended behind the main tunnel. It led into a series of underground rooms. With walls and ceilings a foot thick, it looked like it was built to withstand the most extreme of circumstances.
Clark took a visual tour of the shelter. There were vast stores of food, water, fuel and medicines. There were items for life - furnishings, computers, works of art. Everything needed to survive if the rest of humanity perished.
Deep in thought, Clark returned to the Planet. Lois wasn’t at her desk. At his computer, he searched ‘Company 110’ and found no significant information. The warehouse was owned by Luthor, purchased three months ago from a ‘Mrs Cox’.
Clark looked up as Lois stomped in and sat at her desk without so much as glance in his direction. “Hi Lois,” he said cheerfully.
“Hi.” Her tone dripped ice, which was quite a feat given it wouldn’t have taken a huge leap to imagine steam coming from her ears.
He went to her desk. “What are you working on?” he asked, hopefully.
“Something real big,” she said, still not looking at him.
“Need any help?” he offered.
“Not from you.”
Clark crouched beside her desk, so he was eye-level with her. “Are you angry because I went without you this morning?”
“Of course not,” she said, staring intently at her monitor and typing furiously. “If I had gone with you, I would have missed the potential-Pulitzer-winning-story Perry had lined up for you. Except you weren’t here.”
“Sorry,” he said. He knew she wasn’t going to look up from that monitor no matter how long he stayed there. “See you later,” he said softly and stood up.
That wrenched her attention away from her screen. “You’re going out again?” she asked accusingly.
He nodded. “I have a few things to follow up.” He walked away before she could say anything else, knowing she was angry with him, knowing there would be a price to pay later, but also knowing he had to keep her out of this.
If those drugs came in tonight, he wanted Lois safely in her apartment.
If those drugs came in tonight, he needed the freedom to switch from Clark to the secret identity outfit. He was still not sure how being two people was going to work. He certainly didn’t want to have to do it for the first time in front of Lois Lane, super-reporter.
He would just have to endure whatever vengeance she served up tomorrow.
If he shared the by-line with her, maybe she’d forgive him?
Or ... maybe not.
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Lois typed up the gym opening story, each key in danger of being pummelled into her desk.
She *would* find out what he was working on.
She finished her story, filed it and resolved she would not leave tonight until she knew exactly what Clark Kent, from Kansas, was up to.
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Clark went to the Police Station and asked for Henderson, who took him into an interview room, shut the door and sat at the bare table.
Clark gave him the cufflink and the map of the tunnels. He told him the details of the disagreement between Luthor and Crawford and repeated the conversation he’d heard on the streets.
“You think something’s happening tonight?” Henderson asked, without much interest.
Clark nodded. “Just before eleven o’clock.”
“It’s a bit of a stretch.”
Clark acknowledged that. “That tunnel is important to Luthor. A multi-storey building for the hospital would have been the simpler option, but the foundations would destroy the tunnel. Currently he can bring in anything by road. With the hospital helipad as cover, his scope increases dramatically.”
“OK, I’ll deal with it,” Henderson said, his tone suggesting he intended to forget this conversation within two minutes of Clark leaving.
“There are security cameras in each corner of the warehouse.”
“OK, thanks,’ he said. “Is that it?”
“You don’t think there’s anything in this?” Clark demanded.
Henderson stood and held open the door, waiting for Clark to leave.
Clark didn’t move from the table. “I *will* be there tonight,” he said with steely conviction. “Even if you’re not.”
Henderson studied him for almost a minute, face impassive, hand still on the door. “Stay here,” he barked.
“Stay here?” Clark said, taken aback.
Henderson stepped into the doorway. “Stay here,” he repeated. “Or I’ll have you arrested for tampering with evidence faster than you can move.”
The door shut with a loud bang and Clark sat there, dazed. *Could* he be arrested for tampering with evidence? He’d brought the cufflink to Henderson. And Henderson himself had said it was all right to go into Janet’s shop.
Clark dragged his hand through his hair. Getting arrested wasn’t quite the start he’d envisaged to his career at the Daily Planet.
Fifteen very long minutes later, Henderson was back. He had two cups of coffee. He put one in front of Clark and sat opposite.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Clark asked evenly.
Henderson gestured to the coffee. “Drink,” he said. “We are going to talk.”
Clark sipped the coffee, but his attention didn’t move from Henderson.
“Nothing said here leaves this room without my say so,” Henderson warned.
“OK,” Clark agreed warily, reeling a little at how abruptly he had morphed from criminal to confidant.
“We won’t be doing anything about tonight’s shipment,” Henderson said. “If you’re smart, neither will you.”
“You won’t be –“ Clark exploded.
Henderson raised his hands to silence Clark. “Orders from way above are to leave it alone.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a lot more going on – things which will be threatened if we attempt to bust Luthor tonight.”
Clark considered that. “So drug-running is the least of Luthor’s crimes?”
Henderson nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“But drug-running is hardly petty crime,” Clark reasoned. “If we could prove that, wouldn’t it be enough to nail Luthor?”
“It would nail someone else – that’s what happened last time.”
Last time? There was history here? “What happened last time?” Clark asked.
“Three months ago, we planned what we thought was the perfect raid. And it succeeded – in a fashion. We got Mrs Cox. Every single piece of evidence pointed to her being the mastermind.”
“So nobody suspects Luthor? Not the press? Not the –“
“You think we advertised that we went after Luthor and he outmanoeuvred us?” Henderson asked incredulously.
“I suppose not,” Clark conceded.
“The story was that we had investigated Mrs Cox and caught her red-handed. All the evidence backed that. She looked guilty, we looked successful and Luthor looked the innocently shocked employer. He held a touching press conference and garnered mass public sympathy.”
Henderson’s sarcasm had a brittle edge. “For what?” Clark said, with disgust.
“Mrs Cox was from ... a disadvantaged family. Luthor’s take was all about how he’d risked his reputation to provide her with an opportunity to *better herself*. Her *betrayal* caused him such sadness and disillusionment. In a magnanimous gesture of forgiveness, he bought her warehouse to help her pay her legal costs.”
Clark had suspected Luthor was evil. Now he knew ... Luthor had to be stopped. Whatever it took, Luthor *had* to be stopped. “But this time, there is no Mrs Cox.”
“I imagine Nigel St John is in the barrel now,” Henderson said wearily.
“Surely St John saw what happened to Mrs Cox?”
“Three months ago, Nigel St John was a destitute former professor living on the streets of London. He’s another of Luthor’s *projects*.”
Clark’s frustration was building – and he was hearing it second-hand. “There *must* be records, files, which incriminate Luthor.”
“I’m sure there are, but he has an incredibly complex system which – with one flick of a switch – destroys, changes, replaces everything implicating him.” Henderson scowled. “That’s why we’ve sat back and let him flood our streets with drugs.”
“Can’t you get to him before he has a chance to destroy his records?”
Henderson raised his hands in aggravation. “The LexCorp building is like a fortress – above and below ground. He has every tracking device known to us and probably some we’ve never had. No one gets in there without him knowing.”
“So he sees you coming, hits a button and all the real evidence is destroyed?”
Henderson put his head in his hands. “When the time comes, we will have one chance – one chance to get Luthor. If we fail ...”
“What happens if we fail?”
Henderson looked up with the expression of a man who has lived too long on the edge of his limits. “Luthor has contacts with a foreign terrorist organisation.”
“So he needs the helipad to bring in whatever they supply him?”
“You got it.”
“What?”
Henderson clenched his hands together, his skin rigid over his ivory knuckles. “I’ve already said enough that you could cost me my life with one word in the wrong place.”
“Weapons?” Clark guessed.
Henderson didn’t disagree.
“And?”
Henderson’s eyes slowly closed like a man desperately needing to shut out the world. “And VX.”
Horror coursed through Clark. “The nerve agent?” he exclaimed. “Luthor has *VX*?”
“We don’t think so. Not yet. But it is believed his contacts do.”
“And if he gets it ...?”
“The button he pushes won’t be to change records and files,” Henderson said ominously. “He won’t need fall guys anymore.”
Luthor’s underground shelter suddenly made sense – spine-chilling, terrifying sense. “If Luthor is even thinking VX, he has somewhere safe for himself,” Clark said, wondering if Henderson knew about the shelter.
“That’s what we thought,” Henderson said. “So we sent in someone undercover, one of our best men.”
“And?”
“We lost contact with him immediately. It was a stupid move.” Henderson thumped the table with a clenched fist. “But we were desperate and he was willing to do it.” He stared at the table before glancing up at Clark. “Bottom line is, you can’t be there tonight and neither can we.”
“There *has* to be something we can do,” Clark persisted. “What do you need?”
Henderson shrugged, grim and fatalistic. “A decoy would be nice. Someone to take Luthor’s attention while we get into his building.”
“I’ll do it.”
Henderson studied him with a mix of grudging respect, stunned surprise and pity. “You’ll be in a casket tomorrow if you do.”
Clark took a long, tattered breath, feeling like he was about to plunge into a ravine ... sans the ability to fly. “Do you remember the mudslide in Borneo last December?” he said.
Henderson’s face knotted with confusion. “Vaguely,” he said. “How is that relevant?”
“Do you remember anything unusual about it?”
“Not really.”
“Despite the magnitude of the disaster, no one died.”
Henderson released a caustic laugh on a deep breath. “You’ve lost me.”
Clark pushed away the certain knowledge that there could be no retracting his next words. “Someone helped,” he said, keeping his tone impassive. “Someone who used his powers to rescue every person caught in the mud.”
“Do you have his phone number?” Henderson mocked.
“What do you need him to do?” Clark said.
“What *can* he do?” It was clear Henderson was merely following along, probably because this topic was preferable to that of chemical weapons in the hands of a psychopath.
“He’s very fast, very strong and bullets bounce off him.”
Henderson glared. “Kent!” he roared. “I don’t have time for fairy tales.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re delusional.”
“If I can get him here, will you talk with him?” Clark said doggedly. “Will you work with him tonight to get Luthor?”
Henderson scrutinised Clark, face set hard against the birthing of impossible hope within him. “All right,” he conceded, still unconvinced.
“Unlock the window.”
Henderson’s eyes veered from Clark to the window. “A locked window can keep him out?” he said, sceptically.
“No, but a locked window will be harder to clean up afterwards.”
“What about the window grill?”
“He’ll take it off ... then rivet it back on when he leaves.”
Henderson stood and unlocked the window. “What happens now?” he said. “I sit here and wait like Little Miss Muffet?”
Clark looked at his watch. “If I can contact him, I’ll tell him to be here at eight o’clock.”
“How will I know it’s him?”
Clark cringed, but hoped he covered it. “It’ll be obvious.”
“How do you know about this? The mudslide?”
“I was the reporter. Borneo Gazette. Look up the story on the internet.” Clark drained his coffee. “Who else knows about Luthor?”
“No one here.” Henderson gestured behind the closed door. “They all think I’m either grossly incompetent or hideously corrupt. About once a week one of them puts in a report to my superiors about me.”
“Which never comes to anything?”
“No. Which further convinces them I can’t be trusted.”
“Tough gig.”
“Yep,” Henderson said on a long, despondent sigh.
“So why tell me?” Clark asked.
Henderson looked suddenly exhausted. “Because I just can’t fake another investigation into another murder," he grated. "I can’t take any more corpses on my conscience.”
Clark groaned as his suspicions congealed into awful certainties. “Janet Thorp?”
Henderson nodded.
“David Crawford?”
Henderson nodded again. “And before your time, Ellie Thorp, Samuel Platt, Toni Baines, Commander Laderman ...”
Clark could see that each name seared Henderson individually and his respect for the man grew. “I can understand why you’d feel the need to tell *someone*,” Clark said, “But why me?”
“You’re from Kansas and you’re working with Lois Lane.”
“So?”
“So no average hick from Kansas works with Lois Lane.” Henderson eyed Clark, his face clearing momentarily. “Most wouldn’t *want* to work with her.”
Clark answered with a smile, despite his disquiet. “You don’t think I’m average?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Henderson admitted. “But my brother-in-law is a trooper in Kansas and when I called him, he called a sheriff he knows called Rachel Harris who swears you’re pathologically, almost neurotically, trustworthy.”
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It was early evening when Clark got back to the Planet. Lois was still at her desk. “Hi,” he said.
She didn’t look at him. “Hi,” she said indifferently.
“Would you like to come with me to get something to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
“Would you like me to bring you something here?”
“No, thanks.”
With a sigh of resignation, Clark turned away and headed for Perry’s office. Once in there, he brusquely shut the door and sat down without waiting for an invitation.
“I was wondering when you’d decide to include me,” Perry said easily.
For the next five minutes, Clark outlined what he’d discovered – the tunnels under Metropolis, the incoming shipment of drugs, the relevance of the single-storey hospital and its helipad and his belief Luthor was connected with the deaths of David Crawford and Janet Thorp.
When he finished, Clark looked anxiously at Perry, who had listened with neither interruption nor expression. When Perry didn’t respond, Clark shifted uncomfortably.
Perry picked up a pen from his desk. “Something like this blew up a few months ago,” he said noncommittally. “It turned out Luthor had nothing to do with it.”
“He has *everything* to do with it,” Clark said, more forcefully than he intended.
Perry’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know? Do you have any proof? Any evidence? Do you have anything more than feeble links and speculation?”
Clark looked at the floor for a moment, gathering his words. “Chief, I know what this looks like.”
“It looks like a novice trying to engineer a story into being just because he needs one.”
Clark swallowed. “I will have evidence,” he said earnestly. “Right now I can’t say any more, I have to protect my source.”
“Do you have *any* idea how much this would shake this city?”
Clark met his eyes. “Probably not,” he admitted.
“What does Lois think?”
“I haven’t told her – not most of it.”
“You won’t share your story with her?”
“It’s not that. Nothing like that. I don’t want her getting hurt.”
“She won’t forgive you if you keep her out of a big story.”
Clark winced. “I figured that.”
“Maybe you should bring her into the loop.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Clark dragged his hand through his hair. “Because this will end up bigger than anyone realises and –“
“All the more reason to bring her in.”
Clark lifted his eyes and looked directly at his editor. “I can’t, Perry. I’m sorry.”
Perry frowned. “Will the police be there tonight?”
Clark nodded.
Perry seemed to take a modicum of comfort from that. “You know, son, if it ends up your word against Luthor’s … it won’t be him who goes down. He has a lot of support in this city. And more resources than you could dream of.”
Clark acknowledged that with a grimace. “There’s something else, Perry,” he said.
“Uhm?”
“Lois’s feature on Luthor’s hospital.” Clark stopped, unsure how to word what he was trying to suggest.
Perry studied him, long and intense. “I’ll move the feature back a day and leave tomorrow’s front page clear as long as I can.”
Clark let out a long breath. Until then, he hadn’t realised he’d stopped breathing. “Thanks Chief,” Clark said, as he stood to leave.
“Clark,” Perry said, more gently. “Take care tonight.”
“I will.”
Clark closed Perry’s door, knowing he should walk straight past Lois’s desk. Anything he said would merely give her another chance to rub a little more antagonism into his already chafed heart.
But, he couldn’t resist.
“Still not hungry?” he said as he hesitated at her desk.
“What did Perry want?”
“Just a chat.”
“Lucky him.”
Clark sighed. “See you tomorrow.”
She didn’t bother to respond. Clark walked to the elevator. So much for *kissing* her today. He’d barely spoken with her. And when he had, she had made it abundantly clear he was not someone she was interested in speaking to.
He would just get through tonight - get Luthor apprehended, preserve the incriminating evidence, keep the drugs off the streets, avert the threat of chemical weapons, endure peoples’ reactions to his powers and write a story of a standard such that Perry wouldn’t regret his confidence in his newest reporter.
*Then* he could try to salvage whatever was possible with Lois.
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Lois waited for two minutes after the elevator doors had closed behind Clark. She slipped into Clark’s seat behind his desk and turned on his computer. The computer asked for a password.
She typed ‘Smallville’.
Password declined. She tried it with all small letters, then all capitals. Still declined.
‘Applepie'.
Declined. She tried the variations again. Nothing.
An idea dropped into her brain. Surely, it couldn’t be. ‘Loislane’.
Declined.
She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or spurned.
‘Threesugars’.
Declined.
She paused. He would have chosen his password that first afternoon. She’d been annoyed because he wouldn’t tell her what Sarah Crawford had said off the record. Then he’d left. When he came back, he’d brought her coffee and a chocolate croissant, thinking she could be bought with a little treat.
It had worked, she recalled dourly. He’d apologised and so had she.
*Then* he’d gone to his desk and set up his computer.
Lois typed ‘Chocolatecroissant’.
In.
With a chuckle of triumph, she opened Clark’s most recent document and recognised a map of the East Side, including the proposed hospital. At first glance, it looked about as ordered as spaghetti, but as she studied it, she was able to discern roads, alleys, parklands and finally realised the lines running in contradictory directions were underground tunnels.
A tunnel ran from the hospital helipad to under the LexCorp building; a direct route, under the hospital, under roads, under the city to the bowels of Lex Luthor’s building.
She printed out the map and shut down Clark’s computer. She took the flashlight from her desk drawer, carefully folded the map, put it in her pocket and headed for the East Side.
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Henderson locked the door to the interview room and glanced to the open window. Of the many long shots he’d gone with during his career, this was by far the longest. He was convinced he would be out of here by nine, home before ten and nursing a strong Scotch by eleven. Anything to try to numb his mind to the realities of the poison that would be leaching through his city.
He felt a sudden gust of wind and swung towards the window. With a concentrated effort, he forced shut his gaping bottom jaw. Surely, he had finally, irrevocably, lost his mind.
“Inspector Henderson?” The man in the blue suit and red cape stepped towards him, arms folded.
Henderson could only nod.
“When the truck arrives at the warehouse, I’ll go to Luthor. I’ll keep him occupied while your men do their job. I guarantee he won’t destroy any evidence. When you come, I’ll hand him over.”
“That simple?” Henderson croaked.
“We have the element of surprise on our side.”
*Surprise* didn’t cover it. Not nearly. “Th... thanks.”
“Will you need any help convincing your superiors about this?”
“It’s possible,” Henderson said wryly.
“Have them here in one hour,” the caped one said. He turned to leave, but stopped at the window. “Can I ask a favour?”
Henderson nodded.
“If it becomes common knowledge that Clark Kent can contact me, he won’t have a minute’s peace.”
Henderson nodded again and his visitor *flew*... yes, flew ... out of the window.
Henderson slumped into the chair.
He might not need that Scotch after all.
But then again ...
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Lois located where she thought the opening to the tunnel should be. There was a warehouse over it.
She crept to the side of the warehouse and found a door. It was unlocked. She opened it quietly and slipped inside.
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“Anything from the prisoner?” Lex Luthor asked as he poured himself a glass of vintage red wine.
“Nothing yet, Sir,” Nigel St John said. “Shall I lean harder?”
“Not yet. Let him think about his situation a little longer.”
“You want him killed?”
“I *want* to know why he’s here and what he knows.”
St John’s mouth twisted into a cold, cruel smile. “He’s considered one of the best. He won’t talk easily.”
“He *will* talk though,” Luthor said in a tone which left no room for contradiction. He sipped the wine, savouring it. “So, Nigel ... tonight’s the night. The final encore to a brilliant performance.” Lex Luthor lifted his glass. “To a job well done.”
St John acknowledged the toast. “To you, Sir.”
Luthor smiled with genuine satisfaction. “For two years I have kept the streets of Metropolis awash with my drugs. I have stifled any and all competition ...”
“Dealt with any opposition ...”
“In the most emphatic ways.”
“It is almost sad it is over.”
Luthor smiled reflectively into his glass. “Over in one sense. But what will replace it will make this look like child’s play.”
“You dealt with the Lane woman?” St John asked.
“Not in the usual way. But she won’t cause any trouble. And having her as a starry-eyed advocate could be particularly useful.” Luthor gave a satisfied sniff. “What time will the truck be here tonight?”
“Ten forty-five.”
“Anyone snooping today?”
“Clark Kent was in the vicinity,” St John said. “He didn’t get close enough to actually see anything though.”
“Clark Kent?”
“New reporter with the Daily Planet.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Hardly. He looked at the warehouse, but made no attempt to enter it. Lane would have at least tried the door. He just stood there like a dolt, then left.”
“No other problems?”
“Not with Lane occupied elsewhere.”
“I feel a sense of disappointment,” Luthor mused. “I really had thought Lois Lane might have the intellectual capacity to be a potential adversary. Someone to add a little flavour to my life. Someone to apply even the slightest opposition as I carve through Metropolis. Someone to challenge me and prevent me growing sleek and lazy.”
“And she isn’t?”
Luthor sighed with discontent. “One breakfast in Nantucket.”
The computer on Luthor’s desk beeped and he moved to the monitor, St John at his shoulder. “Trouble?” St John asked.
Luthor smiled with lethal appreciation. “My dear Lois,” he said to the monitor. “I underestimated you. Welcome to the Game.”
“How shall we deal with her?” St John asked.
“Put her with the prisoner. Possibly the charms of Lois Lane can succeed where more traditional methods have failed.” Luthor downed the rest of his wine. “And if they don’t, give the prisoner some *treatment*, then put him back with the lovely Lois.”
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Lois peered around the large, empty warehouse. It was eerily dark; the only light came through the high windows from the street lights outside. The only cover was a cabinet against the wall to her right.
She heard voices and skulked along the wall, finding scant shelter against the cabinet. She peeked out.
Two male figures had appeared in the murky centre of the warehouse. She was sure they hadn’t come through any of the side entrances and the sliding front door had remained closed. Then one of them climbed down what she had to assume was the hole to the tunnel. As soon as the first man disappeared, the second followed.
Lois waited a few minutes and then scurried to the hole. Seeing a ladder, she climbed down it.
The limited light in the warehouse had minimal effect in the tunnel. Lois felt along the wall and moved a few steps forward. She reached into her bag for her flashlight and –
A hand from behind seized her and roughly covered her mouth.
Lois was jostled forward, stumbling despite the beam of light from the flashlight held by her captor. They continued for what seemed like a long way. She couldn’t speak. Whenever she managed to eke out a sound, the hand on her mouth tightened. Her legs had to keep stepping forward or she risked plummeting to the hard floor, with her captor’s weight on top of her.
She was aware they went up and down various levels. They came to what looked like a dead end. Then she saw a ladder leading upwards.
“Two choices, lady,” came a gruff voice in her ear. “You go up there, nice and easy. I’ll be at the bottom and there’s someone at the top who won’t take kindly to any funny stuff. Or I go up first and drag you up by your nice dark hair. What’s it to be?”
Lois started to climb the ladder and the thug’s hand released her mouth.
The light at the top blinded her. She blinked and saw she was in a small, bare room. She rubbed her mouth and cheeks, trying to restore normal feeling.
Nigel St John walked into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “Ms Lane,” he said, ominously polite. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to know where the tunnel ended,” she said, her head held high.
“That was a very poor decision indeed,” St John said. He nodded to the thug. “Search her.”
The thug removed her bag from her shoulder and hustled up and down her body. He pulled the map from her pocket and gave it to St John.
He unfolded it and sneered. “Why are these tunnels of such interest to you?”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” she spat. “I was investigating.”
St John nodded to the thug, still standing behind Lois. She felt a sharp blow above and forward of her ear and stumbled sideways.
When she had regained her balance, she touched her hand to where her head was throbbing in pain. There was a sizable lump, but no blood. She glared at St John.
“Why this tunnel?” St John said, ignoring her look. “Why tonight?”
“I am working on a story about Lex Luthor. I spent yesterday morning with him.” She faced him defiantly. “When he discovers how you’ve treated me, you’ll be unemployed.”
St John sniggered. “Take her to the cell.”
The thug pulled her down the ladder and along the tunnel. When they came to a door, he unlocked it and pushed her in.
Lois could see a figure slumped in the gloom. The thug took her to the wall where hand cuffs dangled, shoved her down, captured her wrists in the cold metal and left.
She heard the door lock.
Lois closed her eyes and tried to calm the sledgehammers beating through her head. When they had become almost bearable, she opened her eyes and allowed them to adjust to the gloom. She slowly turned towards her companion, noting he was male, with dark curly hair and, like her, handcuffed to the wall. His head lifted and realisation dropped like lead in her stomach.
It was Franklin Hodge.
Lois closed her eyes, refusing to give in to the panic sweeping through her.
Franklin Hodge. The ‘Invisible Aide.’ The man with neither job description nor, as far as her extensive digging could uncover, a home address.
With Hodge here, this was big. This was no two-bit operation, no amateur crooks using the fact they worked for Luthor to carry out some minor swindle. This was big. So big, it possibly involved Luthor himself. And Lois had dropped herself right in the middle of it.
