Chapter 3 #2
The corridor reeked of rust and saltwater, and the air was heavy with mildew.
The smell clung to the back of her throat.
She tripped and pointed the flashlight down.
The floor was uneven, slick with condensation dripping from pipes overhead.
Her shoes splashed lightly through shallow puddles where groundwater had seeped in.
The walls were old brick, and when she placed her hand on the wall, the mortar between the bricks fell away in chunks under her slight pressure.
God, this damn thing could collapse at any moment.
She drew a deep breath and pressed forward, too smart to go back but not wanting to go forward either.
Like she had a choice. The flashlight on her phone illuminated the tunnel.
Rusted iron supports groaned faintly when she brushed against them.
Shit. Shit. She drew her arms close to herself.
Don’t bump anything. Don’t bump into anything.
The air grew colder the deeper she went, a stagnant chill that seeped into her bones.
Every sound was magnified. The rush of her breath, the scuff of her soles on wet concrete, and the faint patter of water dripping from overhead jarred her senses.
She prayed there were no animals down here.
Shivering, she pulled her coat closer around her.
As she advanced, she started going uphill instead of downhill.
That has to be good. Up is good. Somewhere in the distance, machinery hummed, a low and constant sound that energized her steps.
The tunnel curved, then widened, and a massive iron valve loomed overhead.
She held her flashlight and examined it, recognizing the city crest impressed on the metal.
It was probably remnants of the old drainage system.
The bolts around the pipes had corroded into knots of rust. Elise ducked under it, shoulders barely brushing cold metal, but her pulse raced faster.
“Don’t touch. No touching,” she whispered to herself because even the sound of her own voice was better than the sounds of the tunnel. She paused every thirty seconds or so to make sure she couldn’t hear anyone coming after her. The silence was deafening and not all that reassuring.
When the tunnel climbed sharply, the smell shifted.
Less brine and more of a chemical smell that stung her nose.
She suppressed a cough and pressed on. Ahead, there was a faint glow of light.
The thought of a moth and a bug zapper flittered across her mind.
Of course, she was the moth, wasn’t she?
Not helpful. She batted the thought away.
At last, the narrow passage opened into a service corridor lined with gray tiles and pipes snaking along the ceiling.
The air hummed with the sound of pumps and the scent of disinfectant.
A yellow sign, written in both Dutch and French, warned against unauthorized entry.
Thank God. She was at the water treatment plant.
Her nerves were on edge, but she kept moving, head down.
She fumbled with her purse, shoving the letter étienne had given her inside while pulling her notebook out.
Be professional. Don’t act rushed. You belong here.
She pressed the tablet to her chest and held it too tight.
Stopping to orient herself, she took the chance to pull two deep breaths and steady herself.
She spotted an exit. Marked by a lighted sign, it was a heavy metal door. Relief rushed through her veins.
She had barely stepped outside, blinking against the afternoon sun, when a voice barked sharply, “Hey! You can’t be in there!”
Elise stopped and turned to look at the person who stopped her. A man in stained overalls strode toward her. His hard hat was under his arm, and irritation was etched into every line of his face.
She fumbled at her neckline and pulled out her press credentials, holding them up with what she hoped was casual authority. “Elise Serra, freelance journalist. I’m here to research an article on the harbor’s historical infrastructure. I didn’t realize the access points were restricted.”
The man snatched the card from her hand, pulling her forward a bit before he realized it was attached to a lanyard around her neck.
“Sorry.” He moved forward and squinted at it.
Then his jaw flexed, and he pointed at her.
“You can’t just wander around a treatment facility like it’s a museum tour.
Christ, you could’ve gotten yourself killed if you’d gone down the wrong tunnel. ”
His glare softened only slightly as he dropped her ID, which flopped against her chest. He thrust a battered yellow hard hat into her arms.
“You want to play reporter in a place like this? Fine. Wear this. Next time, wait for an escort before wandering through the service tunnels. You could get lost, or one of those things could collapse. It would be your tomb because no one is going digging down there.”
Elise ducked her head in apology, clutching the helmet to her chest. “Thank you. I’ll be more careful.”
“See that you are.” He stalked off, muttering about journalists with no common sense.
Elise exhaled, her pulse still elevated, then adjusted the strap of her bag, tightened her grip on the hard hat, and walked toward the street.
Her hotel room in the Cathedral quarter felt like a cage.
She'd drawn the curtains against the Gothic spires of the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekathedraal, but shadows seemed to press in from every corner. The heating pipes clanged with an ominous rhythm, and every footstep in the hallway made her freeze. A dark, smelly tunnel and her overactive imagination weren’t the reason for her nerves this time.
She’d pulled up the local news on her phone when she’d awakened.
A local private investigator was found attacked at the harbor.
The police were calling it a robbery gone bad.
Karel Hendricks was dead. The same fate as étienne, wrapped in the official indifference.
The local reporter had said there was evidence of a struggle at the shed, and there were three dead, not one.
Karel hadn't died alone. There was no information on the others.
The reporter cited pending notification of the families.
She spread étienne's notes across the narrow bed, trying to piece together the final days of his investigation. On her laptop, she tried to put his notes into some semblance of order, and the act of typing his words kept her mind busy. She needed the distraction because she would go insane if she didn’t do something.
She’d do this and then use Antwerp’s city library’s online portal to do her research.
Her laptop chimed with a new email. The sender's address was a string of random characters, but the subject line made her blood freeze: From étienne.
She bit her lip and let the mouse hover over the email. Did she trust it? She looked at the handwritten notes strewn across the bed. If her computer became infected with some kind of virus, she still had his original notes. Curiosity won, and she clicked the email.
My dear Elise,
If you are reading this, then the worst has happened. I set this message to send automatically if I fail to check in for three weeks. By now, you've found some of my research, but there is more. Much more.
The man behind this network is untouchable through legal means. He has judges in his pocket, politicians on his payroll, and police who look the other way. But he has one weakness—arrogance. He believes himself safe in his residence outside Budapest, surrounded by his security team.
If you insist on continuing, know that you are not alone. There are others working to stop him. They operate in shadows darker than any you or I have walked through. Trust Guardian. They may be your only chance at survival.
But I beg you, don’t do this. Don’t follow in my footsteps.
Elise, my dear protégé, this is not your fight.
You are a journalist, not a soldier. I have left my estate to you.
Go to Paris, meet with my solicitor, whom you have met before.
Take what I've given you and disappear. Change your name, leave Europe, forget this story exists.
Some truths are too dangerous to tell. This is my dying wish. Leave this alone.
étienne
P.S. If you don’t listen to me (which we both know you won’t), the key to everything is in M-47-BUD.
Elise stared at the screen until the words blurred. What Guardian? She pulled out the letter that Karel had given her. There it was again. Guardian. What did that mean? Was that Karel? He couldn’t protect her anymore.
Outside her window, the bells of the cathedral began their evening toll, each chime counting down the hours until she would have to make a choice—flee into obscurity or follow her mentor's trail into the darkness that had consumed both him and Karel.
The key glowed on the screen: M-47-BUD. BUD …
what was that? Everything she found suggested the BUD could be Budapest. It surely wasn’t training of American Seals, which was the other meaning of BUD, basic underwater demolition training.
She eliminated one website after another. No, it had to be Budapest. But why?
Budapest was where she would either find the truth or join étienne and Karel in their afterlife.
The fear that coursed through her veins turned into something stronger.
Determination. They had paid too high a price for her not to try.
She’d expose the reason they’d been killed, or she would also die trying.