Free Down: Pinhole by Glenn Cooper

impotently.
    “They should be dead. These were all fatal wounds,” John said, his voice cracking.
    Dirk cackled at that.
    “No one dies here, didn’t you know? That’s the thing ’bout Down, John Camp. There’s no way out.”

6
    One of the MI5 agents was yelling, “Take him, take him down!” but Trevor called them all off. Another agent demanded that the lab personnel evacuate, prompting a rapid but controlled rush to the exits.
    The young man stood at the spot where John had been a moment before, his hands empty with no visible weapons. The gangly, dirty kid was shaking like a cold, wet mutt and Trevor immediately sensed that it would be best to go easy. He holstered his gun.
    “What’s your name, mate?”
    The kid stared in panic at the men encircling him, pointing pistols at his chest.
    “Don’t be scared. We’re not going to hurt you. My name’s Trevor. What’s yours?”
    “Duck.”
    “Duck?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s a good name, mate. Yeah, I like it. So Duck, before we go somewhere nice and have a chat, I’m going to just pat you down, ever so gently, to make sure you don’t have anything on you that could hurt us. Okay?”
    “Wot’s pat me down mean?”
    “Touch your clothes. To see if you’ve got a weapon.”
    “Me brother ’as a knife, but I don’t.”
    “I hear you. Can I check anyway?”
    Duck swallowed and nodded. Trevor slowly approached and ran his hands over his smelly shirt and dirty trousers. Duck’s shoes were caked in wet mud. Trevor had him slip his bare feet out of them to check inside. He flinched at the smell.
    “Okay, it’s all good,” he declared. “How old are you, Duck?”
    “That’s an ’ard question.”
    “Really? If I had to guess I’d say you were eighteen, nineteen. Maybe twenty.”
    “Oh, in those kinds of years. I’m nineteen.”
    “What other kind of years are there?”
    Henry Quint had remained in the control room and when he called out, Duck looked up at him in alarm.
    “Ask him where he’s come from, for God’s sake!”
    “Who’s ’e?” Duck asked. “The lord of this shire?”
    “Yeah, in a way,” Trevor said. He turned to Quint and said, “We’ll get to all that, Dr. Quint. Why don’t you let me do this my way, all right?”
    Quint mumbled something and showed his anxiety by clicking his pen furiously.
    “I think we can all put away our weapons,” Trevor told the agents. “Duck’s going to be a good, cooperative chap, aren’t you, Duck?”
    “Where am I?” Duck asked.
    “This is Dartford. In England.”
    “Don’t look like Dartford.”
    “You know it?”
    “’Course I do. I’m from there, an’t I?”
    “Okay, Duck. I reckon we’ve got a lot to talk about. Let’s go someplace nice and quiet, maybe get you some fresh clothes and a good wash. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
    “Got any beer ’ere?”
    Trevor smiled. “I think we can manage to find you a beer.”
     
     
    “Where is he?” Quint asked.
    It was midafternoon. Trevor was punch drunk. It had been the strangest of days.
    “He’s having a kip. We’ve got him tucked away in one of the security-guard overnight suites.”
    “Is it secure?”
    The other man in Quint’s office answered with the elocution of a public school boy. Ben Wellington was the lead security agent at MI5 and he’d been shadowing Trevor all day. He was one of the agency’s pedigreed breeds with a pocketful of Eton and Oxford credentials, the kind of man destined for high office within the security services. He was crisply turned out in a bespoke suit and silk tie with freshly cut hair. “We’ve installed locks on the outside of the door and have three agents on duty outside. In addition we have installed monitored video cameras in the bedroom and the loo.”
    “He’s not going anywhere,” Trevor said. “And quite frankly I don’t think he wants out. He’s happy as a monkey with a peanut machine.”
    “Tell me what you’ve found out,” Quint said.
    “I rather think you