Chapter 17 Tunnel Teeth #3
“Partly.” His voice echoed weird in the narrow space. “But mostly because working alone means fewer people to remember if things go wrong. Fewer faces to carry. Fewer ghosts.”
“I'm sorry.” The words felt inadequate. But I meant them.
“Don't be. It's kept me alive. Kept me useful. Kept me hunting.” He stopped at an intersection. Considered two identical passages. Chose the left without hesitation.
“How far?” I asked.
“Two more turns. Then down.” Cal's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “The witness is meeting us in the sub-basement. Old filing room that officially doesn't exist anymore.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Found it during my first reconnaissance of this building. Eighteen months ago. Photographed the layout, memorised the access points, marked it as potentially useful.” He glanced back at me.
“I've probably spent two hundred hours in this courthouse over three years. I know spaces most people forgot existed. Can walk most of it blind if necessary.”
“That's...” I searched for the right word. “Terrifying, actually. And impressive.”
His mouth curved without humour. “Stay close. And keep your voice down. Sound carries weird down here.”
We descended deeper. The air grew colder and I could feel the weight of the building pressing down.
Cal navigated it without hesitation, one hand trailing along the wall, the other holding his phone's dim light.
“Here.” He stopped at a door that looked like all the others. Unmarked. Rusted hinges. Handle that probably hadn't been turned in years.
It opened smoothly.
Inside was a room that smelled like mildew and fear. Filing cabinets lined three walls. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, providing just enough light to see by. And standing in the corner, looking ready to bolt, was a man I didn't recognise.
“You're late,” he said. Voice shaking.
“We're here now.” Cal moved into the room slowly. Non-threatening. “This is Dom. He's with me.”
“You said you'd come alone.”
“Plans change. He's trustworthy.” Cal kept his distance. Gave the man space. “You have something for us?”
The man's hands were shaking. “I shouldn't be here. If they find out I talked to you—”
“They won't.” Cal's voice went softer. Reassuring. “We're careful. No one followed us. No one knows about this meeting except the three of us.”
“You don't understand. Harrow—he knows things. He always knows.” The man pulled out a flask, took a drink with desperate speed. “He knew about the evidence before we sealed it. Knew which files to bury. Knew which people to pay off.”
“Who told him?” I asked.
The man's eyes snapped to me. “You're Rourke. The sister.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry. What happened to her—it wasn't right. But I couldn't stop it. None of us could. The orders came from too high up.”
“Who gave the orders?” Cal's voice stayed patient. But I heard the tension underneath. The careful control that meant he was close to something important.
“I don't know names. Just instructions. 'Seal this file. Lose that document. Make sure this witness statement disappears.'” The man took another drink. “But there was one thing. One detail that didn't fit the pattern.”
“What detail?”
The man flinched. “The autopsy. Dr Quinn flagged something. Said there were inconsistencies. Said the angle of injury didn't match the official story. She put it in her notes. But then the notes got edited. Changed. Made to match what Harrow needed them to say.”
“What was the inconsistency?” Cal's voice had gone deadly quiet.
“Your sister—” He looked at me. “She wasn't alone when she died. Someone else was there. Someone who cleaned up afterward.”
“Who?” My voice came out rough. Raw. “Who was with her?”
“I don't know. But Harrow knew. And he protected them.” The man's hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the flask. “That's all I can tell you. That's all I know. Now I need to leave before—”
The explosion cut him off.
Not close—maybe fifty metres down the tunnel—but loud enough that the sound ricocheted off brick walls like thunder trapped underground. The ground shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. Ancient mortar crumbled.
“Move!” Cal grabbed the witness's arm, started pulling him toward the nearest exit. “Now!”
I was already running, my hand on the man's other arm, half-dragging him as another explosion rocked the tunnel. Closer this time. Deliberate. Someone was sealing the exits systematically.
“They found us,” the witness gasped, stumbling between us.
“Shut up and run,” Cal snapped.
We hit the junction where the tunnel branched. Cal went left without hesitation—he'd mapped this, knew which way led to exits that weren't currently exploding. The witness wheezed between us, out of shape, terrified, slowing us down but we couldn't leave him.
Another explosion. Behind us this time. The shockwave hit like a fist, throwing us forward. I caught myself against the wall, kept the witness upright, kept moving.
“How far?” I shouted over the ringing in my ears.
“Hundred metres!” Cal's voice came back. “Service ladder! Leads to Holborn!”
Smoke was filling the tunnel now, thick and acrid. The witness was coughing, struggling to breathe and run simultaneously. I got my arm around him, took more of his weight.
“Don't stop,” I said. “Don't fucking stop.”
Cal reached the ladder first, yanked the access cover open. Weak light from street level filtered down. “Up! Now!”
The witness went first, climbing with desperate speed born of pure terror. Cal followed, moving fast despite his ribs. I brought up the rear, glancing back to see smoke rolling toward us like a living thing.
We emerged into a narrow alley behind a restaurant, all of us coughing, covered in dust and soot. The witness collapsed against the wall, wheezing, clutching his chest.
Cal was already moving, scanning the alley, checking sight lines. “We need to go. They'll be watching the exits.”
“Give him a second,” I said. “He can barely breathe.”
“We don't have a second. Those explosions were timed. Professional. Which means they knew where we were and when.” Cal pulled the witness upright. “Can you walk?”
“I—yes—I think—”
“Good. Because we're leaving. Right now.” Cal started toward the alley entrance, the witness stumbling between us again.
We emerged onto Holborn, blending into evening foot traffic. Just three men in dirty clothes, looking like they'd had a rough day at work. Nothing to draw attention. Nothing to make people look twice.
Cal's hand stayed on the witness's arm, grip firm. “Where can we take you? Somewhere safe. Somewhere Harrow won't look.”
“I don't—there's nowhere—” The man was shaking worse now, reality setting in. “They tried to kill us. They tried to bury us alive.”
“Yeah, they did. And they failed.” Cal's voice went harder. “Which means you need to disappear. Properly. We can help with that. But you need to trust us.”
The witness looked between us. “Why would you help me?”
“Because you helped us. Because you told the truth when you didn't have to.” Cal's expression softened fractionally. “And because Harrow's people just tried to kill all of us. Enemy of my enemy and all that.”
“I have—there's a sister. In Manchester. Maybe—”
“Good. We'll get you on a train tonight. Cash only. No electronic trail.” Cal was already pulling out his phone, texting someone. “You'll need to stay gone for a while. Few weeks at least. Until we can use what you told us to take Harrow down.”
“You really think you can?”
“Yeah. We really think we can.” Cal met my eyes over the witness's head. Something passed between us—acknowledgment of what we'd just learned, what it meant, how it changed everything.
Lily hadn't been alone. Someone had killed her. And Harrow had covered it up.
Which meant this went deeper than we'd thought. Higher than we'd planned for.
But we had a thread now. Dr. Quinn's original notes. The inconsistencies she'd flagged. Proof that the official story was bullshit.
We just had to stay alive long enough to use it.