Chapter 65 - The Iron Foundry
The Troy Industrial Complex rose out of the gray landscape like a rusted leviathan, its towering brick chimneys silhouetted against the encroaching twilight. The blizzard was intensifying now, white sheets of snow erasing the tracks behind our truck as Campbell slid the heavy vehicle between two abandoned railcars to conceal it from the road.
Lily was shivering, clutching my hand with all her strength as we navigated the narrow pedestrian entrance beneath a collapsed steel awning. Eleanor stumbled behind us, wheezing, her expensive leather boots soaked and ruined by the freezing sludge.
"Lower level," Eleanor gasped, pointing a trembling finger toward a reinforced fire door half-buried in drifted snow. "Sub-basement three. Arthur bought the property under a shell company in 1994. It’s off the grid. No digital tracking."
Campbell kicked the ice away from the door sill. "I’ll watch the perimeter. If those Suburbans followed us from Albany, they’ll be sweeping the river road within twenty minutes. Take the girl and get the paper. You have ten minutes, Vance. Not eleven."
We descended into the pitch-black maw of the concrete staircase, the beam of Campbell’s heavy flashlight illuminating peeling paint, damp concrete, and the lingering stench of machine oil. Lily pressed her face into my hip, silent and brave, refusing to cry even as the dark pressed in on us.
"Almost there," Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling in the cavernous quiet. "Door 4B. The card reader operates on emergency backup batteries."
We reached the heavy blast door at the bottom of the landing. Eleanor fished a thick, magnetic keycard from her inner coat pocket with shaking fingers, swiping it through the rusted reader. A dull mechanical buzz sounded, and the heavy pneumatic lock released with a metallic thud.
Inside, the room was vast and freezing, lined with rows of olive-drab steel filing cabinets and sealed server racks. On the central table sat a heavy iron lockbox, painted with the faded crest of the Vance Maritime Corporation.
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"Here," Eleanor breathed, rushing forward and collapsing onto the edge of the metal table. "Arthur’s personal archive. Everything that was too dirty to put on a bank server."
She entered a five-digit code into the box's electronic keypad. With a sharp click, the lid popped open.
