Steve found the lock to the wine cellar and made short work of it. He heard no noise in the basement, so he was not concerned about using his flashlight while he picked the lock.
Once inside, he found himself face-to-face with more than a dozen shelves, each containing well over a hundred bottles each. Even worse, to check the labels, he had to pull the bottles out of the round holes in which they had been placed.
There has to be a better way, Steve thought. Or I'll be here for days.
He shone the light around the shelves and stopped short when he spotted an empty shelf that looked like it had a book. Moving toward it, Steve grinned. It was not a book, but a binder, and there was only reason anyone would have a binder in this place. Reaching the binder, he flipped it open.
Perfect.
The binder had listings of each wine and vintage in alphabetical order, with a corresponding number - most likely, the location of the bottle on the shelf. Even better, next to the name of each winery was a copy of its label. All Steve had to do was find the white label with the purple image.
He began flipping pages and looking for a label the fit the image in his head. As he reached the fourth page, his search was interrupted by the sound of a siren coming from the upstairs.
Steve felt like someone poured a bucket of ice over him. Had he set off an alarm without realizing it? He turned from the binder and looked back at the stairs. There was no light at the top, so it did not appear like anyone had opened the secret passageway. Still, the alarm had to be connected to him so he had to find the bottle quickly. He turned back to the book, flipped a few more pages, and then stopped.
Do I smell smoke? He did. Was that the cause of the siren? Was there a fire upstairs?
With a renewed urgency, Steve began looking further. Page after page, he went, seeing nothing that looked like the hazy label in his memories. He kept going though, flipping each page and reviewing the labels.
There.
In the middle of the binder, he spotted it. A white label with a green border. In the middle was a purple tree. Over the tree was the winery name, "Jacaranda." Only two bottles listed - 1990 and 1991. So which vintage was the poison, he wondered. He had no idea, but it would not matter. Steve would take them both. In his head, he took note of the location numbers - 538 and 864 - and began moving toward the shelves.
Behind him, he heard a noise. Steve spun around toward the stairs and saw a light from the office above.
No, he thought. Not when I'm so close.
Pulling out his gun, he made his call. I'll just wing them. A shot to the shoulder would take the guard out and give Steve a chance to escape. His eye narrowed as he readied his aim. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a figure came into view on the stairs.
Steve froze as he saw the uniform of the Salem Fire Department. The man was a firefighter, but how did he know about the passage? Two other firefighters followed the first one down the stairs. They made a beeline toward Steve.
"Come on, Johnson," said the first firefighter to reach him.
Now Steve was completely confused. How did they know his name? How did they know he was here? "I don't-"
"There's no time for talk," said the firefighter. He held out a fireman's coat and a hat. "Put these on."
Steve suddenly understood. Someone - and he had a damn good idea who - was trying to stop him. "I'm not leaving," he said. "I'm here to find something."
"You don't get it," said the second firefighter. "We're taking you out of here right now."
"No," Steve insisted. "I'm not leaving." He turned back toward the shelves.
Behind him, he heard the first firefighter say, angrily, "I said . . . This isn't your choice. You're going to take our help whether you want it or not."
Steve spun around. "Tell Dono-" Before he could finish, one of the men grabbed him in a bear hug and something flashed in front of his face. Steve tried to break free, but the thing - a cloth - was shoved over his nose and mouth. He could smell the drug even as it took effect. No. Not when I'm so close.
"You got him?"
"Yeah. He's not going anywhere." That came from the man holding Steve. Whatever they had used on him, Steve was still conscious; at least, he could hear and see what was going on around him. But when he tried to talk, nothing happened. And he could not move his arms and legs.
The men put the coat and hat on him. The man holding Steve lifted him over a shoulder and began carrying him up the stairs.
As if it wasn't enough that Donovan screwed this up, now I'm being lugged around like a sack. Even though he could not move, Steve's fury increased. I'm going to kill him.
At the top of the stairs, they were met by several other men dressed as firefighters. "Target secured," said the man carrying Steve. "Give us two minutes to take him out, then finish up in here." As he spoke, Steve noticed smoke pouring from one of the bookshelves. What the hell?
He tried to speak again, but the words still did not come. The man carried Steve out of the office and down the hallway toward the living room. Two other agents followed. As they neared the door, their pace increased.
"Out of the way," said the agent carrying Steve. "Get that ambulance over here."
Someone with an accent asked, "What's going on?" Steve recognized the voice from earlier. Ma-ray or whatever his name was.
"He got trapped by the smoke," said the agent. Out the corner of his eye, Steve could see the other agents pushing Ma-ray away. Before he knew it, Steve was lying on a stretcher and being pulled into an ambulance.
When the doors shut, one of the paramedics loomed over him, holding a hypodermic needle in his hand. "I'm going to counter the agent we gave you."
Good, Steve thought. Once I can move again, I'm going back in there to get those bottles. He did not feel the prick of the needle, but after a few minutes, he regained feeling in his limbs and curled his hand into a fist.
The agent went down before he even realized Steve had thrown the punch. Steve pulled himself off the stretcher and began to open the doors.
"Hey," came a voice from outside. It was the agent with the bear hug. Steve had barely gotten the doors open when the man and two others shoved him backwards. Steve crashed back against the stretcher, but stayed on his feet. Bear Hug was blocking his path, but that was not going to stop him.
"You didn't hear me before," Steve growled. "I'm not leaving."
The man shook his head. "Johnson, don't make matters worse. You've already created a huge mess."
"Not for me. I had it. If not for your-"
Before he finished the words, someone grabbed him from behind. He turned to take a swing, but Bear Hug grabbed his arm securely at the wrist. For an instant, Steve froze. Then he saw the men in their white coats and masks.
"You're not gonna take me!" he yelled.
Then Steve lashed out. An elbow connected with someone's head, but the man kept his grip on Steve's wrist and they both crashed to the floor of the room. He could see other masked men by the door, watching him, waiting for him to be injected again.
"Let me go!" Steve screamed as he did everything he could to break free of the hold. He kicked and struck out with his free hand. "You're not taking me again!"
"Shut him up!" Someone grabbed Steve's free arm and pulled it back.
"NO!" Steve yelled, even as he was pulled onto his back. They would not take him again; he was not going to be their lab rat.
Someone fell on top of him and held him down. Steve continued to scream and throw himself against the restraints.
He heard one of the doctors. "Shut him up now." As Steve stared wide-eyed, one of the white-coated men held up a needle.
"NO!" he shrieked again, even as the needle pierced his skin and an icy river seemed to flow through his veins. He tried to scream again. Maybe Steve did, but he could not hear it as the world fell silent. His vision clouded and, soon, everything went black.