Chapter 16
The drainage culvert was a mouth of absolute darkness.
No moonlight penetrated this far, no streetlights reached beneath the highway.
Griff felt his way along the corrugated metal wall, rust flaking beneath his fingertips, the ridges catching on his torn shirt.
Each movement sent fire through his shoulder.
The smell hit him in waves—decades of rotting vegetation, motor oil from the highway above, something dead further in that made his stomach turn. Water dripped somewhere deeper in the tunnel, each drop echoing in the blackness.
Sarah shifted beside him.
"Don't even think about using any light," he whispered. "They'll spot us instantly."
"But we can't see—"
"Better blind than dead." He pressed his palm against his shoulder, feeling warm wetness seep between his fingers. The bullet had carved a groove along his deltoid—painful, messy, but not life-threatening. Yet. Blood loss plus exhaustion wasn't a winning combination.
Above them, footsteps thundered across the drainage grate. A flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating them for half a second—Sarah's dirt-smeared face, eyes wide with controlled panic—before sweeping past.
"Blood trail leads this way," a voice called. Professional. Calm. "They went to ground."
"Thermal's three minutes out," another replied.
Griff calculated rapidly. Their pursuers would sense he was a pro.
With help coming soon, no way they’d risk following him and Sarah blind.
He had three minutes until tech arrived, and their pursuers turned their hiding spot into a kill box.
Both ends of the culvert would be covered by now. Six contractors minimum, probably more.
"We're trapped," Sarah breathed beside him, her voice edged with panic.
"Not yet." He kept his voice steady, authoritative. "But we will be once that thermal arrives." He jerked his head toward the deeper darkness. “No choice but to go further in.”
Sarah shifted beside him, her hand brushing his vest. "I have a better idea. Give me your phone."
"What?"
"Your sat phone. I know someone who can help." Her fingers found the device, pulled it free. “She lives close. And she’s resourceful. If she can’t come herself, she’ll send someone she trusts. Doc’s amazing."
"Sarah, we can't involve civilians—"
"She's not a civilian." He heard her cupping the phone against her body to shield any light. "My old mentor from Georgetown. Economics professor, but way more than that. She used to be some kind of agent. Classified work. The kind nobody talks about."
"An economics professor? Sarah—"
"Thermal's moving into position," someone called from above. "Two more minutes."
Griff's options evaporated. Needles was too far away. His team was on the other coast. Local law enforcement was probably compromised. They were out of time.
No choice. They were out of moves.
"Do it," he said.
Her fingers moved over the phone, dialing from memory in the darkness.
Even with the volume low, a woman's voice carried in the tunnel: "This had better be important."
"Doc, it's Sarah. Are you at your DC house?"
“I am.”
Griff took the phone. "Ma'am, this is Sarah's protection detail. We're pinned under Route 50, mile marker eighteen. Six-plus hostiles with thermal inbound. We need immediate extraction."
A pause. "How badly are you hurt?"
How did she—? "Shoulder graze. Mobile but bleeding."
"Twelve minutes. When you hear Vivaldi's 'Winter,' move toward the sound. Fast."
The line went dead.
"Twelve minutes?" Sarah grabbed his arm. "We don't have—"
"Quiet." Griff killed the screen, plunging them back into darkness. "She knows what she's doing. That wasn't a civilian's response."
Footsteps directly overhead now. He heard the distinctive scrape of someone setting up overwatch positions. They were bracketing the culvert, textbook flush-and-clear. "Thermal's moving into position," someone called from above. "Sixty seconds."
Griff's hand found Sarah's in the darkness, squeezing once. Move time.
"Follow me," he whispered. "Hand on my belt. Don't let go."
They crawled deeper into the culvert, Griff counting his paces. The concrete tube had to connect to something—storm drains didn't simply end. Twenty yards in, his hand hit metal instead of concrete. A junction.
"Feel that?" He guided Sarah's hand to the perpendicular pipe. "Maintenance tunnel. Goes under the highway."
"How do you know?"
"Different material. Older construction. This is original infrastructure."
Behind them, flashlight beams probed the culvert entrance. They had seconds.
Griff pulled off his jacket, balling it up.
"What are you—"
"Decoy." He gave the bundle a hard shove down the main culvert, where the slight grade would carry it along with the water flow.
The maintenance tunnel was tighter—they had to crawl on hands and knees through six inches of freezing water. Sarah's breathing came in short gasps behind him, but she kept moving. The darkness was absolute, so thick it felt solid.
"I’ve got a body. Maybe two" A muffled voice from above. "Moving through the main drain. Head west. Cut them off."
Griff allowed himself a grim smile. The jacket was buying them time.
The maintenance tunnel opened into something larger—he could feel the space expand around them, echo differently. His hands found a rusted ladder bolted to the wall.
"Up," he whispered.
They climbed blind, Griff testing each rung before trusting his weight to it. His shoulder screamed with every pull. Above them, a metal cover—locked, but the lock was old, corroded. He braced himself and struck it with his palm. Once. Twice. The lock shattered.
They emerged into a utility room—electrical panels, water meters, the hum of infrastructure. A small window showed the highway outside, and beyond it...
The DOT depot. Salt trucks lined up like sleeping giants. Mountains of road salt waiting for winter. Automated systems he could trigger, vehicles he could start, chemicals that would react with water to create heat blooms that would confuse thermal imaging.
Salvation. He'd make sure of it—a playground he could use for the next 8 minutes or so.
"Wait, they're not moving," someone's voice carried from outside. “That's not... those aren't people. It's debris. Check all connecting tunnels."
Griff eased open the utility room door. They were in a highway rest area's maintenance building, closed for the season. The DOT depot sat across the service road, maybe 200 yards through sparse trees.
"Can you run?" he asked Sarah.
She nodded, though he could see her ankle was swollen even through her boot.
"On three. Straight for the depot. Don't stop, no matter what."
Through the window, he saw flashlights converging on the culvert area. The contractors were regrouping, but they were focused on the wrong location.
"One... two... three."
They burst from the building, sprinting across the dark ground. Behind them, someone shouted. A flashlight beam swept past them, then snapped back.
"Contact. Northeast, heading for the depot."
The chain-link fence loomed ahead. Griff found the gap where drainage had eroded beneath it, shoved Sarah through, then followed. His shoulder caught on the metal, sending fresh fire through the wound.
The depot spread before them—six bay garage, salt storage domes, dozens of vehicles. Everything he needed to create chaos.
"Seven minutes," he said, checking his watch.
"What do we do until then?"
Griff looked at the depot—all those beautiful, exploitable systems.
"We throw a party," he said, already moving toward the electrical box. "Stay close. This is about to get interesting."
Behind them, the fence rattled as the contractors reached it. But Griff was already inside the electrical box, flipping switches. The depot erupted into light and noise—a mechanical symphony of distraction.
Seven minutes to evade professional killers with thermal imaging.
He could work with that.