Moyne.
He was planning something.
He was planning it now.
She knew.
Her gut was sure.
Last time, her gut had known.
And Lois had ignored it.
Her friend had died.
Lois had failed her. Badly.
Because she had ignored the warning of her gut.
But this time ...
Lois sprang from the bed, checked her weapon, strapped her gun holster to her ankle, pulled on jeans and a sweater, and grabbed her bag. Five minutes later, she was speeding through the dark streets of Metropolis towards Bessolo Boulevard.
Part 8
Lois paused at the external door of the compound.
She was here ... and she hadn't really thought too much about what happened now.
The wall of the warehouse loomed eerily behind her, but there was nothing to support her instinctive feeling that something was wrong.
She calmed her tattered breaths and pressed her ear against the door.
There was no sound.
Did that mean she was too late?
Should she enter silently?
Or burst in and claim the advantage of surprise?
Raising her knee, she slid her hand down her leg and felt the comforting bulk of her weapon strapped to her ankle.
She slipped the key into the lock and turned it very slowly. She pushed the door open and winced as it creaked loudly in the silence.
From the staffroom, there was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and the silhouette of Moyne appeared in the doorway. "Ms Lane," he said. "What are you doing back so soon?"
Lois shut the door and carefully locked it. "Is everything OK?"
"Yup," he said easily.
Lois climbed the stairs and let herself into her office. Once she'd locked the door, she stood in the darkness and looked into the brightly illuminated cell.
The prisoner was asleep on the floor. He was lying on his back - which was unusual. However, it wasn't necessarily indicative of trouble; it could simply be that he'd healed enough to allow a greater variety of sleeping positions.
She lifted the binoculars to her eyes. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
Lois released a deep sigh. Her gut had gotten it wrong.
She was losing her edge.
Had lost it.
She switched on the light and sank into the chair.
She'd been so sure. She'd *felt* the danger. Felt it like a clinging presence.
She'd felt it many times before.
Linda had always said that the Lois Lane gut was more reliable than a barometer.
Linda.
Her partner.
Her friend.
Lois missed her so much.
They'd worked on so many assignments together that they had often joked about how they thought as one, acted as one, advanced as one, retreated as one.
And it was true. Lois had known what Linda was thinking before Linda did. Linda had known what Lois was going to do before Lois did it. *That* had saved her more times than bore thinking about.
They had shared an unshakeable belief in Lois's gut feelings.
More than once, they had risked everything on the strength of Lois's intuition.
And then had come the night ... *that* night.
Linda had wanted to go - she had argued that there was no reason to believe there was any danger.
Lois had agreed. But her gut had protested.
Linda had insisted.
Lois had been torn.
Torn between her friend and rationality on one side and the nagging insistence that something was amiss on the other.
They'd gone.
The only thing that transcended their faith in Lois's gut was their sworn pact that they would never split.
So, they'd gone together.
And strolled straight into the trap like two guileless schoolgirls.
They'd been gagged, tied up, and locked in a dark room.
They'd managed to communicate a little - through grunts and the uncanny ability to predict how the other was likely to react. They had shuffled awkwardly until they'd managed to position Lois's bound feet under Linda's bound hands.
Slowly, tediously, painfully, Linda had worked at those knots.
Ultimately, that perseverance had saved Lois's life.
Linda had saved Lois's life.
But not her own.
"Ms Lane?"
Lois jumped at the sound of the voice on the other side of her door.
"Yes?"
"There's something I think you should see."
Lois stood and glanced into the cell. The prisoner hadn't moved. She approached the door. "What is it, Moyne?"
"I think you need to see this."
She couldn't cower in her office until the end of Moyne's shift.
"Ms Lane?" he said anxiously.
And, whatever the problem was, it was her responsibility.
Lois unlocked the door and cautiously opened it.
Moyne was there - looking tentative.
"What is it, Moyne?"
He gestured down the steps. "You need to see this."
Lois leant out of the office door and looked down the stairs.
With a sudden flash of movement, Moyne's arm snaked across her throat and his fingers dug deep into the fleshy part of her right upper arm. He twisted her roughly and rammed her back against his body.
Lois reacted - trying to free her other arm, trying to pull air into her crushed lungs, trying to bend low enough to reach her gun, trying to land a kick on his legs.
Her efforts achieved little - such was the force of his grip.
Her training clicked in and overpowered her adrenaline-fuelled impulses. With one concerted effort, Lois inched her left arm forward and then thrust her elbow back into Moyne's ribcage.
She heard him grunt and felt the swoosh of air explode from his mouth.
Lois sensed her moment to attack. She jolted her arm again. This time, his hold gave way, and the sudden release caused her elbow to smash into the doorframe. Excruciating pain flared up her arm, and she gasped.
Moyne re-tightened his chokehold and dragged her towards the stairs.
Numbness was spreading through her left arm as it hung uselessly at her side. Lois clawed at his forearm with her right hand as her lungs began to crave unrestricted oxygen.
He dragged her towards the stairs.
He reeked of stale cigarette smoke.
"Let ... me ... go," Lois panted.
"Sure," Moyne puffed. "Once we get to the cell."
The cell? He was taking her to the cell?
What would the prisoner do to her?
Had Trask been right? Was the alien a vicious killer?
Halfway down the stairs, Lois swivelled the lower portion of her body enough to kick at Moyne's legs. He retaliated with a vicious blow that landed on the point of her left ankle.
She stumbled, and her ankle twisted sharply, shooting a second rocket of pain up her leg.
Lois bit down on her scream and tried to clear her mind.
Physically, he was stronger.
If she was going to overcome him, she had to plan.
The cell door.
That would be her chance.
He would have to unlock it.
That's when she would strike.
At the bottom of the stairs, Moyne turned them into the staffroom and dragged her backwards towards the door to the cell.
His left arm tightened its grip. He reached past her with his right hand and picked up a key from the table.
"I didn't expect you would give up so easily," he sneered. "Given your reputation."
Good. Let him think he'd beaten her.
"Wanna know what's going to happen to you?" he taunted. "You're going into the cell - without a rod. The brutal animal hasn't had a taste of the Achilles for three days ... and he hasn't seen a woman in seven years. When he's had his turn, I'll be down - with a rod - to finish the job."
Lois closed her eyes as the blackness crowded in on her.
Linda!
Linda had been raped.
And then he'd killed her.
Lois hauled in a breath, and her scream echoed around the staffroom.
Moyne's fist swung and struck a glancing blow to her left cheek. The key he held scraped across her skin.
In the moment of her confusion, he heaved her to the door of the cell. He buried the key into the lock and kicked the door open.
Ahead was the cell. The prisoner's domain. She couldn't let Moyne lock her in there.
Moyne pressed his weight into the centre of her back and edged her forward.
Lois clamped her good foot against the doorjamb.
His foot crashed into the area behind her knee, and her resistance crumbled.
Moyne released his hold across her throat. Lois twisted and grasped blindly with her right hand, managing to seize a fistful of his hair.
Moyne shoved her forward.
Lois clung to his hair.
She fell forward into the cell. She hit the concrete and his hair slipped from her grasp. The weight of Moyne crashed on top of her. Lois swung her good elbow, flailing wildly as all technique was lost in the blizzard of battle.
His weight squirmed. She felt his hand on her right leg and kicked frantically.
He clamped her leg against the concrete and slid her gun from its holster.
His weight left her, and the mayhem of movement stopped.
Lois rolled onto her back. Moyne stood at her feet, gun poised.
Blood was streaming from a cut on his lower lip. He squinted at her, his eyes dark and filled with fury.
"You're gonna die for that, bitch," he snarled.
"This time, they'll know it was you," she said defiantly.
Moyne sniggered. He lifted the gun and pointed directly between her eyes.
She stared at his finger on the trigger. It squeezed slowly, with deadly purpose and chilling certainty. The explosion shattered the air ...
... but the pain didn't come.
Lois opened her eyes ... and saw a pair of shorts and a bare back below the hem of bushy dark hair. The prisoner was standing over her, one foot on either side of her hips. Her view of Moyne was restricted, but she could see enough to know that they were facing each other like two gladiators.
They were going to fight over her.
Fight for the right to kill her.
Abuse her.
With an angry roar, Moyne sprang at the prisoner.
There was a blur of movement, and Moyne collapsed with a dull thud next to Lois's legs. Her gun shot from his hand and slewed across the concrete.
There was total stillness.
Silence.
Except for the pounding of her heart as it thrashed hysterically against her sternum.
Moyne didn't move.
The prisoner raised his foot and stepped over her.
He turned towards her, and his eyes slammed into hers.
Lois's breath stopped.
What was he going to do?
The door was too far away. He was standing - she was flat on her back. If she tried to make a run for it, she doubted she would even make it to her feet.
Would he try to escape?
If he did, she had no chance of stopping him.
He still hadn't moved.
He still watched her.
Moyne hadn't moved either. He must be unconscious.
Her gun!
Was too far away.
She had thought that Moyne had fired.
From close range.
Yet Lois was sure that she hadn't been shot.
There was no expanding puddle of blood.
The prisoner wasn't bleeding either.
She could feel a sluggish drizzle oozing down her cheek.
But that wasn't from a gunshot wound.
The prisoner hadn't moved. Could he possibly be waiting for her? Waiting to see what she was going to do?
She pressed the hand of her good arm into the concrete and struggled to a sitting position.
The prisoner didn't react.
Her left arm felt like it was encased in a cast of heavy steel.
Her ankle hurt like crazy.
The prisoner stood like a statue, his eyes riveted to her.
She glanced down his body. His right fist was clenched, but he had no sign of any injury. His former wounds had healed - without evident scarring.
He was less than a yard from her.
The cell door was wide open.
The rods were in her office.
Moyne was unconscious on the floor.
And her gun was out of reach.
The prisoner's left hand began to move. It lifted in agonisingly slow motion.
Her breath froze, and her throat convulsed.
His hand stopped ... suspended in the air ... his forefinger slightly adrift of the others.
It didn't *seem* threatening. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought he was trying to reassure her.
Without releasing her from his gaze, the prisoner stepped towards Moyne.
Lois gulped.
Was he going to kill Moyne in another horrific attack?
Was this his moment of retribution?
He reached Moyne and looked down at the unconscious figure. The prisoner crouched low, reached under Moyne's shoulders and knees, and lifted him with ease. He carried Moyne and laid him perpendicular to the doorway - with his head pointing towards the staffroom.
Then, the prisoner picked up the tin box.
He swung open the lid and rustled through the contents.
He removed something, closed the lid, and returned the box to the floor.
His eyes sought Lois again.
He took a step towards her. Then another. And another. He bent forward, and his left hand continued towards her. His fingers uncurled. In his palm was the Neosporin.
Lois's eyes leapt from his outstretched hand and to his face.
His eyes were deep brown.
His unruly beard made it impossible to read his facial expression with any certainty.
In Moyne's eyes, hatred had burned.
In the prisoner's eyes, there was ... Lois didn't know.
But it wasn't hatred.
They were within touching distance; they weren't touching, but the distance between them was bridged by the fusion of their eyes.
Time stopped.
Then, his other hand lifted, his forefinger unfurled from his fist, and he ran his fingertip along his cheek, as if signalling the place of her injury.
Lois pulled her gaze from his eyes and took the ointment from his palm.
He straightened.
Hesitated.
His eyes veered to her gun, and icy fear shivered through Lois.
But he turned away and walked in the opposite direction - to the far corner of the cell.
He sat down against the wall, arched his knees, and perched his forearms on them. He stared ahead - not looking at her, although Lois was sure he could still see her.
She scrambled to her feet and gingerly placed her ankle on the concrete. Pain shot up her leg. She limped to her weapon, picked it up, locked it, and slipped it into the holster.
She hopped over Moyne and through the doorway.
She bent over to drag him into the staffroom, but then she hesitated.
Leaving him in the open doorway, she turned, and hobbled up the steps with more speed than her ankle appreciated. She snatched her bag and returned to the staffroom. Moyne was still motionless. She peeked into the cell. The prisoner hadn't moved either.
Lois sat on the table and lifted her ankle onto the seat of the chair. She took the cell phone from her bag and called Scardino's private number.
His drowsy voice answered a few moments later. "Daniel Scardino."
"It's Lois Lane," she said. "You need to get to the compound now."
She heard the alarm in his swiftly inhaled breath. "The prisoner?" he said. "Has he killed again?"
"No," Lois said grimly. "But I think that was the plan."
