Chapter 22 - The Subterranean Trail
The descent into the utility tunnels beneath Blackwood Hill felt like dropping straight into the belly of hell. The air was thick with the stench of ozone, burnt cordite, and damp earth. Armed guards in full tactical gear fanned out ahead of us, their rifle-mounted flashlights cutting sharp white beams through the swirling mist of dust and pulverized concrete.
I refused to stay behind. When Sylvester had ordered me to wait in the fortified panic room, I had looked him in the eye and picked up a heavy tactical flashlight and a combat knife from the armory table. *“If you leave me behind, I will walk out those gates alone,”* I had told him. He hadn’t argued further; he had simply strapped a Kevlar vest over my chest and handed me a suppressed sidearm, showing me the safety catch with steady fingers.
Now, we moved swiftly through the brick-lined corridors that had remained forgotten for half a century.
"Watch your step," Sylvester muttered, walking a half-step ahead of me, his weapon raised, sweeping every archway.
Suddenly, my foot kicked against something soft. I lowered the beam of light, and my heart seized violently.
Lying in a puddle of stagnant water was a single woolen mitten—blue, with a small embroidered star on the wrist. I had knitted it for Lucas last winter during the cold nights in our rundown apartment, when we could barely afford heating.
"Lucas dropped this," I gasped, falling to my knees to scoop the sodden piece of fabric up. I pressed it to my face, catching the faintest trace of his scent beneath the mud. "He left a trail. He knows we’re coming."
Sylvester crouched beside me, his jaw tightening until the muscle ticked. He touched the wet fabric, then pointed his flashlight toward the ground ahead. Small footprints, dragged intermittently, were pressed into the soft silt, alongside the heavy, treaded combat boots of three large men.
"He's smart. He’s fighting them in his own way," Sylvester said, a grim pride threading through his voice. "They didn't carry him out knocked out cold; he's awake, which means Sterling needs him lucid. Sterling wants an audience. He wants Lucas to suffer so that our pain is amplified."
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"Sir!" one of the lead scouts called out from thirty yards ahead. "Breach point reached! They exited into the abandoned storm drain behind the old industrial rail line!"
Sylvester surged to his feet, pulling me along with him. "Move out! If they reach the primary highway, we lose the aerial advantage!"
