Chapter 33
Cal reached for his mobile at the same moment Io flicked on her phone’s flashlight.
The narrow stone stairs dropped steeply into the tunnels, no railing, the edges worn smooth by time.
Io moved with deliberate care, her beam cutting across damp stone.
One less thing for him to worry about—she didn’t need reminding to watch her footing.
Cold air rose from below, carrying the smell of wet earth and old stone.
By now, Mother Teresita would’ve told the renovation architect about the hidden passage.
Which meant Petrova’s men would know, too.
Their head start would last only as long as it took the Russians to find the trigger and open the entry.
Io reached the tunnel floor and shifted aside so he could step off the stairs. Her voice was low, barely more than breath. “We can’t head to the convent. The tunnel will be common knowledge by now. They’ll be waiting for us.”
He scowled, but she was right. The abbey had zero security, and the Russian mafia wouldn’t hesitate to storm a building full of nuns.
“Agreed. We need a side passage before they figure out how to get down here.” He lifted his phone, thumb already moving.
“I’m going to text the team. Get some backup. ”
“Good idea.” She pulled the chalk from her pocket and snapped it cleanly in half. The sound was small but sharp in the tunnel’s stillness. “Take this. If we get separated, we both need to mark our path.”
He pocketed his piece, and she was already moving, her flashlight beam cutting a narrow cone through the dark. The main tunnel swallowed her steps, the air cool and stale around them.
Cal followed, thumb flying over his screen as he tried to text the captain. The message failed instantly. “Damn it.” He switched back to flashlight mode, the glow barely pushing back the darkness. “No bars. I can’t get us any help.”
“Copy that,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the tension threading the air.
The main tunnel felt solid enough under their boots, but Cal couldn’t say the same for any of the spokes branching off it. Father Tomás had warned them not to stray into those side passages, but staying in the open wasn’t an option. Not with Petrova’s men behind them.
For now, the walls held—smooth, damp stone with no breaks or openings.
Cal swept his light along the debris shoved to the sides: splintered wood, broken crockery, chunks of fallen rock.
Whatever side tunnel they chose would be worse, the rubble spread across the full width instead of neatly pushed aside.
A faint scraping echoed behind them, muffled but unmistakable. Cal’s pulse kicked. “They found the tunnel entrance.”
“Copy. I’ll take the first turnoff we hit.”
The tunnel stretched on in a straight, unbroken line, the darkness swallowing everything outside their narrow beams of light. Too open. Too exposed. The Russians would start cautiously, but once they saw the debris pushed aside, they’d know it was safe to move faster.
“Fifty feet ahead, on the right. Turning,” Io said, her voice clipped and steady.
“Copy,” Cal answered.
But he didn’t feel as calm as his voice did. Anxiety pressed tight against his ribs. He wanted Io safe, not leading them deeper into a two-hundred-year-old passage that could decide to collapse without warning.
The sunburst etching.
Io didn’t hesitate, angling toward the same tunnel that had caught her attention the last time they were down here. There wasn’t another option close enough to matter. “Be careful,” Cal murmured, the warning pulled from him by instinct.
His jaw clenched when she dropped into a crouch. “Io—” The word came out sharper than he intended, frustration threading through it. The chalk mark she left behind stood out stark and white against the stone—too bright, too obvious, a trail any pursuer could follow.
She rose in one smooth motion, already sweeping her flashlight deeper into the passage. “Do you want to chance getting lost?” she asked, voice low but steady. “We don’t know this tunnel system. We need to leave a trail.”
She moved again before he could argue, and what was he going to say? She was right. They had no idea what kind of maze they were walking into. Every choice carried risk, but she’d picked the one that leaned toward survival.
Probably.
The tunnel narrowed quickly, the air turning colder and wetter. Io had to pick her way over broken rock, shattered crockery, splintered furniture—decades-old debris left to rot in the dark. Her boots scraped against uneven stone, each step sending small echoes down the passage.
They threaded through the minefield of rubble, Cal sweeping his light along the walls. Damp patches glistened where moss clung to the stone, broken up by dry, brittle sections that flaked under the beam.
Io paused at another dry patch of wall and made a quick mark. The deeper they pushed, the worse the air grew—wet earth thickening into mildew, the sour bite of moss, and then a new thread weaving through it. Rotting wood.
Cal’s stomach tightened. Damn. If that smell came from support beams giving way…
Io bent low again, chalk whispering across stone. She didn’t linger, didn’t hesitate—just marked and moved, her flashlight slicing ahead through the dark.
Cal exhaled slowly and followed. Moving quietly was impossible; every step crunched over debris, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls. He strained to hear anything behind them, but the tunnel swallowed everything. Even if the Russians overshot this side passage, the reprieve wouldn’t last.
They’d double back the moment they realized they’d lost Io.
She paused every hundred feet to make another mark.
Smart. Tactical. If they weren’t being hunted, fifty feet would’ve been safer in this darkness and debris, but they didn’t have that luxury.
He hated that she had to leave a trail at all.
His sigh echoed louder than he intended when they reached a fork.
This—this right here—was why she was smart to mark their path.
Io lifted her phone, angling the beam to sweep across both tunnels. The light caught on something carved into the stone. When she lingered, he saw it too. Another sunburst symbol.
Cal wasn’t surprised she chose that corridor.
He kept his attention trained behind them, listening for the scrape of boots or shifting debris.
The threat was at his back; Io had to take point.
When she stopped abruptly, he almost collided with her.
She stepped closer to the wall, angling her light over a series of shallow, uneven hollows carved into the stone.
“Wait,” she whispered, barely more than breath. “I read something about this.”
“What? Where?” Skepticism edged his voice. These tunnels had been forgotten longer than most people had been alive.
She spoke quickly, almost as if she were racing her own memory.
“‘The sunburst marks the pilgrim’s drift: where stone breathes damp and silence thickens, the path bends not to light but to memory. Count three hollows past the emblem, and the true way will lean against the earth’s pulse.
Those who mistake the mark for treasure will find only the judgment of weight and shadow. ’”
The words hung in the cold, stale air. Cal stared at her. “And this riddle helps us how? The assholes are going to be on our tail any minute. We don’t have time for this shit.”
Io didn’t flinch. Of course she didn’t. She called herself the tough twin, and she wasn’t wrong. She was the strongest woman he’d ever met—one of the reasons he’d fallen for her. He didn’t have the patience for someone he’d have to tiptoe around.
“It’s not just a riddle,” she said. “It’s directions. I skimmed some historical documents attributed to Captain Sungrave before I left Los Angeles. Three hollows past the emblem—that’s this passage. I’m pretty sure it mentioned an exit somewhere.”
“It’s probably blocked by now. It’s been two hundred years, Thing.”
Io looked ready to argue, but the crunch of footsteps echoed down the passage, faint but unmistakable. Cal caught the low murmur of Russian and scowled. “They’re following the chalk marks.”
“The only option is forward.”
“Yeah. Mark us off less often,” he murmured.
She frowned, and he could see her weighing the risk of getting lost against the Russians closing in. “I’ll add an extra twenty-five feet.”
Petrova’s voice drifted down the corridor, sharp and commanding. Io didn’t wait for Cal’s agreement. She lifted her phone, angled the flashlight ahead, and moved.
He followed. The tunnel deteriorated fast—mortar crumbling out from between the stones, some blocks eroded into soft, uneven edges from years of water seepage. Probably rain during storms. Damn. He didn’t like any of it.
They stepped into a rounded chamber, and Cal’s pulse spiked. No tunnel ahead. If this was a dead end, they were done.
Io swept her light in a slow arc across the curved walls. She stopped abruptly. “Look.” She pointed to another sunburst symbol carved into the stone on their right.
“Thing,” he warned, voice low as she rushed toward the symbol. The Russians were closing in; he could feel the pressure of their footsteps tightening the air behind them.
The stone here was smoother, less worn, and Io made a quick, practiced flourish with the chalk. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
Realizing one of them needed to focus on getting them the hell out of here, Cal finished the turn Io had abandoned, sweeping his light ahead.
The opening loomed four feet above the tunnel floor, jagged rocks jutting from the top and sides of the archway like broken teeth. Petrova barked another order, the sound ricocheting down the passage. They were close now. Too close.
“Time to go,” he whispered.
Io was already moving, reacting to the proximity of the voices before he even finished speaking. She vaulted up and over the threshold with practiced ease, and Cal followed, boots scraping against the jagged stone.
Another chalk mark.
Fuck. He understood the necessity—no cell signal meant no navigation, and getting lost down here would be a death sentence—but every mark was a breadcrumb for Petrova. The bastard wanted Io. He saw her as the key to that damn treasure.
The tunnel tightened around them, forcing Cal to angle his shoulders to squeeze through. His pulse kicked up again. If this dead-ended, he wouldn’t be able to protect Io. Not for long.
Another fork.
A faint brush of air grazed Cal’s cheek from the right-hand passage. Instinct flared—that was the way out. He caught Io’s arm, shook his head once, and pointed toward the source of the breeze.
She angled her light to the left instead, illuminating three shallow hollows carved into a large stone. “This way, Cal.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Sungrave’s directions were clear. Three hollows.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. Behind them came the scrape of boots—five men, maybe more—and one of them was Petrova.
The bastard wanted Io badly enough to chase her personally through this labyrinth.
His voice carried as he barked orders, echoing through the stone corridors without a hint of caution. Arrogant as ever.
But the air was coming from the right. They needed an exit, a way out, and the breeze meant an opening.
But Io was confident. She wasn’t guessing—she was relying on research she’d done before leaving the States. She’d been briefed, she had context he didn’t, and that left him with only two choices: trust her to lead, or take control.
Was what she read accurate?
Cal’s chest tightened. Memory surged—Elena, rattling off shark facts with bright eyes and breathless excitement, thrilled every time she learned something new. She’d wanted to be a marine biologist. She’d been so sure she understood the risks.
And then the after.
The funeral. The quiet house. The hollow ache of knowing she hadn’t listened. That she’d believed she knew better. And she’d paid the price.
He couldn’t lose Io the same way.
His grip on her arm tightened, the instinct to drag her down the right-hand passage nearly overwhelming. The faint breath of air promised escape, and once they were above ground he could call in the team, get real backup, get her safe.
But when he looked at her, he didn’t see defiance. Not like Elena that day. Io wasn’t choosing left to prove anything or seize control.
She genuinely believed it was the right path.
Behind them, the Russians spilled into the round chamber. They were out of time. He should pull Io toward the breeze, force the issue, get her out before Petrova closed the distance.
This wasn’t a battle for authority. He wasn’t dealing with a headstrong kid who refused to listen. Io was not Elena. She chose the left-hand fork because she had evidence. Because she knew something he didn’t. Not reckless. Confident. Trained.
Petrova’s shout echoed from the chamber behind them as he spotted the chalk mark. Cal heard the excitement in his voice, the hunt sharpening.
They were out of time.
“I trust you. Lead the way.”
He released her arm. Io vanished into the left-hand tunnel, her light cutting a thin line through the dark. Cal followed because trusting her was the only way out, and the Russians were already too close to doubt.