Free The Identity Thief by C. Forsyth Page A

"Did it need a big orange 'Down here' arrow on it?"
    The Homeland Security man looked as if he wanted to pull a vanishing act himself. Traci gave herself the pleasure of flashing a quick, smug smile. Then she came to his rescue.
    "There was a lot of confusion at the scene," Traci said. "In that kind of pandemonium ... "
    "That's nice. Bring me the heads of the clowns who searched the truck," snapped Normand. He addressed Traci, to her delight. "So we send a party down there."
    "I would suggest 10 eight-man teams,' Traci said.
    At the far end of the table, a white-bearded man who'd been introduced only as Mr. Jones puffed thoughtfully on a pipe. Exactly what organization he worked for was something of a mystery. Traci had been told "That information is strictly need to know."
    "It's vital that he be taken alive," Mr. Jones declared. "The information he has about terrorist networks - the Jihadist Brotherhood and the Warriors of Allah in particular - is invaluable."
    Normand nodded. "Understood."
    Traci cleared her throat. "Sir, I want to lead the search team."
    Her boss hesitated.
    "After what happened I think I'm owed a little payback," she said.
    Traci was certain she heard a low snicker from her colleague Malloy but ignored it.
    Normand pounded the table. "It's your show. Let's roll."
    Traci shot out of her seat. As the crowd poured out of the room, Agent Malloy whispered to her, "Your feminine wiles came through again. This is going to be a real feather in your cap - if you catch the guy."
    Traci usually ignored the redhead but couldn't resist saying, "By the way, Malloy, I thought you told me your sister was an ophthalmologist. Don't forget to get her out of lockup when her interrogation is over. She'll get cold in that G-string."
    Malloy stood there, trying to think of a comeback, but by the time he did the room was clear.
    * * *
     
    X hadn't the vaguest clue where he was. The tunnel, about eight feet high and five feet wide, was as dark as the inside of a womb. His hands groped the sides of the tunnel and found them slick with slimy algae. He recoiled in disgust but he forced himself to slide along them for support, for to fall into that foul water was unthinkable.
    He sloshed through the now knee-deep water, through which floated plastic bags, Styrofoam cups and crushed beer cans. It was like wading through the digestive tract of some garbage-eating sci-fi monstrosity.
    It reeks like a week-old corpse down here , he thought, clapping his left hand over his nose while the right clung to the tunnel wall.
    X had expected it to be hot but the temperature was actually at least 30 degrees colder than above ground, and the fugitive felt goose bumps rising on his arms. The stream, though shallow, roared like a mountain river. Occasionally from far above, X could also hear the rush of traffic and the occasional rattle of manhole covers.
    Retrieving his getaway car and the clean identity of Steve Holdenbrook was, of course, now a lost cause. But X had a plan. He had a friend - all right an acquaintance, for X had no friends as an ordinary person would understand the term - who operated a legal brothel about 50 miles outside Vegas. If X could make it there, he could probably find a temporary refuge.
    X's face encountered a spider web that stretched the breadth of the tunnel and he brushed it away in revulsion. The bug that made that thing must be the size of a raccoon , he thought, wiping lingering strands from his cheeks.
    It was slow going. About 100 feet later, he felt a punch to the rib cage as he slammed into a protruding lateral pipe. X lost his footing and - horror of horrors - fell to his hands and knees in the water. He scrambled to his feet, screaming in disgust and fury. He hated germs, he hated dirt.
    Why is this happening to me? It isn't fair!
    "Yuck, yuck, yuck!" His voice echoed through the tunnel and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Hardly the time for loud complaints.
    X trudged on.
    About 150 yards farther