Chapter 75 - The Architect’s Gilded Cage
The ventilation shaft on the northern face of the mountain was encrusted with thick rime ice, half-buried beneath an overhang of compacted snow.
Ethan worked with methodical precision, his battery-powered plasma cutter hissing as it sliced through the heavy steel louvers. Sparks showered into the snow, glowing red before dying instantly in the freezing wind.
"One more hinge," Ethan grunted, bracing his boots against the icy ledge. A two-thousand-foot drop fell away into the white abyss behind his heels.
With a dull crunch, the iron grate broke free. Ethan caught it before it could plunge down the mountain and set it carefully onto the snow.
"Inside," he whispered. "Sensors show an exhaust fan thirty meters down, but the blades are spinning at half-speed for maintenance. We can slip through the gaps."
I didn't wait. I crawled headfirst into the dark, narrow tunnel.
The smell hit me immediately—not the sterile frost of the Alpine peak, but the recirculated, ozone-heavy stench of an industrial air scrubber, laced with the metallic tang of hospital-grade antiseptic. It was the smell of sickness, of imprisonment, of the sterile rooms where Arthur had signed away my life.
We dropped out of the duct into a high-ceilinged concrete corridor lit by low-voltage emergency strips. Yellow paint on the walls read: *SEKTOR B — FORSCHUNG (RESEARCH).*
Ethan checked the tactical scanner. "Sublevel 2. The main auction gallery is three hundred meters to the south. Sublevel 4 is directly beneath us, accessible via the central elevator shaft or the fire egress."
"We split up?" Ethan asked.
"No," I whispered, keeping my rifle raised, sweeping the intersecting corridors. "If they detect an anomaly in the auction room, their first move will be to sanitize Sublevel 4. We go to the children first. We secure the extraction route, then we cut the head off this snake."
Suddenly, the soft hum of rubber tires on polished concrete echoed from the far end of the hall.
We pressed ourselves flat against the recessed alcove of a heavy fire door.
Two men in white laboratory coats, escorted by two private contractors in black tactical uniforms bearing the insignia of the *Stygian Defense Group*, rounded the corner. One of the scientists was carrying a metal biometric cryo-case, talking in hushed, nervous German.
"...the baseline sequencing is almost ninety percent complete," the scientist muttered, adjusting his glasses. "The girl's immune system is degrading under the neuro-blockers. If Lord Finch insists on a live demonstration before the gavel falls, she could go into cardiac arrest."
"Lord Finch doesn't care if she survives the night," the lead contractor replied in a flat, gravelly voice. "He only needs the retinal pattern and the marrow sample to unlock the Zurich server. Once the transaction clears in Geneva, the children are scrap."
My vision blurred crimson.
*Lord Finch.*
The name clicked into the mosaic of Victoria's network. Alistair Finch—Victoria’s primary financier, the man who had bankrolled the political protection that kept my sister Evelyn out of prison and Arthur in his executive chair. He wasn't just a bidder; he was the buyer who had ordered the hit on David six months ago.
The men stopped twenty feet from our position, waiting for an elevator to open.
I didn't look at Ethan. I didn't need to.
I stepped out of the shadow.
The suppressed crack of my HK416 was no louder than a dry branch snapping underfoot. Two rounds punched through the chest of the left guard before he could raise his carbine; a third took the second contractor through the throat. Ethan was already moving, his combat knife flashing in the dim light as he took down the second guard, driving him into the concrete and severing his carotid artery with clinical, terrifying speed.
The remaining scientist dropped his clipboard, his mouth opening to scream.
I lunged forward, the muzzle of my rifle pressed hard beneath his chin, forcing his head back against the cold concrete wall.
"Make one sound," I whispered, my voice dripping with ice, "and I will tear your jaw off your face. Which room are they in?"
The scientist stared at my eyes through the balaclava, trembling so violently his teeth clicked together. "R-Room... Room 402. Intensive care. But you can't... the doors are on a localized magnetic failsafe! Only the auction console upstairs can release the seal!"
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"Then you're going to take us to Room 402," I said, grabbing him by the collar of his coat and shoving him toward the stairs. "And pray that my children are breathing when we get there."
***
