Free The Final Trade by Joe Hart

they were telling the truth about how many they were,” Tia says.
    “Regardless, we move carefully. Newton will stay and watch the door—”
    Bang!
    The entire group tenses. Zoey brings up her handgun, pointing it down the short hall at the steel door. There is a pause and then another quiet clanging of metal on metal.
    She glances at Merrill, who nods in the direction the noise came from.
    They move down the hall together, Eli searching through the keys as they reach the door. Zoey reaches out and tries the knob. It turns easily.
    Eli rolls his eyes and puts the keys away, then counts down silently, his fingers closing into a fist.
    Three.
    Two.
    One.
    Zoey yanks the door open. Eli and Tia stream through followed by Merrill. Zoey goes last, covering the area inside the doorway.
    They spill out into a massive garage smelling of wet cement and oil. The ceiling is high, patched with flickering fluorescent panels. Dirty light streams in through two long windows cut into dual overhead doors that she’s sure a helicopter could fly through. In the center of the space is a huge vehicle the likes of which she’s never seen before: oblong and armor plated, sitting high on four large wheels. Dark glass is set in reinforced squares along its front and sides and its bulk is the color of dark sand. Around the machine is a gathering of red boxes, their tops open to reveal glinting tools within.
    And beneath the vehicle a short pair of legs pokes out, scuffed boots at their ends.
    Eli and Tia cross the space swiftly, taking up positions on either side of the hulking machine. Merrill walks forward, handgun pointed at the figure, who grunts something. Another clang is followed by a quiet curse.
    “Come out from under there,” Merrill says. The figure freezes, the sound of work stopping immediately. Slowly the man scoots free from beneath the truck.
    He is older than Zoey expected judging by the ages of the other men, his hair streaked with gray, face round and flushed red from his work. He wears a pair of glasses, frames so thin they’re almost invisible. He sits up, grease-stained hands rising to shoulder level. His eyes flick around to all of them, hovering longest on Zoey.
    “Who are you people?” he asks.
    “Visitors,” Merrill says. “Stand up and turn around slowly.” The man does as he’s told, knees popping as he rises. After shuffling in a circle he drops his hands to his sides where they open and close spastically.
    “Are you going to kill me?”
    “That depends. What’s your name?” Merrill asks.
    “Lyle. Lyle Partridge.”
    “Are you alone in here, Lyle?”
    “Yes.”
    “How many people live at this installation?”
    “Nine.”
    “One of the others said there were seven of them and a woman. Why did they leave you out?”
    “Because they don’t count me as part of the group. I’m not with them.”
    “You said nine counting the woman?” Zoey asks.
    Lyle’s gaze, watery and timid, flicks to her. “Yes, counting her.”
    “Where is she?” Zoey steps forward and brings up the handgun so it’s level with Lyle’s head.
    He cringes. “Don’t shoot me. I didn’t do anything to her.”
    “Where?”
    “The second floor. Third door on the right.”
    “Eli, give me the keys,” Zoey says.
    “Zoey, wait. We—” Merrill begins.
    “Give me the keys,” she repeats, holding out her hand.
    Eli glances at Merrill and sighs, handing her the jangling ring. “I’m coming with you.”
    Merrill calls to her, but she doesn’t stop. A sinking sensation is growing in her center. She pushes through the doorway into the hall, not stopping when Chelsea yells to her from the front of the building, the words meaningless amidst the sound of blood thudding in her ears.
    She swings right and climbs the stairway, taking the treads two at a time, Eli close behind. She covers her path with the handgun, hurrying, being reckless, she knows, but the inflection in Lyle’s voice set off an alarm inside her.
    Zoey turns at