Chapter 27 Ciar
Ciar
This tunnel isn’t wide enough to accommodate me. Nor Cillian. Axl barely fits in, but turns sideways as well. Looks like we are crab walking down here. We barely breathe as the Garda thunders past and then for several seconds afterwards.
“Move,” I murmur to Sorcha, who is in front. There is no way to reorder our group right now, so she goes first. She pulls out her phone and flicks on the flashlight. The darkness swallows the beam, but it gives us an idea, so we aren’t completely blind.
We edge forward, with Sorcha muttering curses under her breath.
She jumps a mile, and we all freeze when the phone in her hand buzzes with a message.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
“Annastasia,” she whispers back. “She says: Not Garda. Specialised taskforce. What did you do?”
I hiss out a breath. “We found Smythe’s body. That’s what we did.”
“Shit,” Axl mutters behind me. “They moved fast.”
“Too fast,” Cillian adds. “Someone wanted us framed for this.”
I turn back to face forward, my mind racing. A specialised taskforce means someone high up pulled strings. This wasn’t just the local Garda responding to a body. This was planned.
“Keep moving,” I growl to Sorcha, who’s frozen in place, her phone still clutched in her hand.
She doesn’t argue, just starts shuffling forward again, the light from her phone bouncing off the narrow walls.
The air down here is thick and stale, and I have to fight the urge to take deep breaths, and I’m acutely aware that if something goes wrong, there’s no room to manoeuvre, no space to fight.
“Where does this lead?” Sorcha asks, her voice tight.
“Old maintenance tunnels?” Axl says from behind me. “God knows. I never made it this far.”
“On your shagging adventures?” Sorcha snarks. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough?”
“Jealous?” Axl fires back.
“Will you two shut it?” I snarl. “This isn’t the time or the fucking place.”
They both ignore me, but I can feel their glowering in the oppressive dark.
The tunnel angles downward, which is awkward as fuck. I feel the bite of rough walls on my back through my shirt. Sorcha’s breathing is getting more laboured. She’s struggling with the confined space.
“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Fabulous,” she lies. “Just love being hunted through underground tunnels for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“We’ll sort it,” I tell her, and I mean it. No one’s pinning this on her. Not while I’m still breathing.
“That’s easy for you to say, they aren’t looking for you,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” I say, gripping her elbow, forcing her to stop. “We won’t abandon you. They want you, they have to come through us.”
“It’s just words,” she says, desperation seeping into her tone. She is truly scared. “You, your dads, your families will protect you. I’ve got fuck all.”
“Gee, thanks,” Axl mutters.
“Seriously?” I say to him. “She’s scared, and you’re being sarcastic?”
“She is my wife; if she thinks that doesn’t mean something, she needs to learn fucking fast that she is untouchable.”
“Yeah, apparently not,” Cillian says.
“I’m willing to bet that the news has hit certain ears,” Axl says so confidently, I want to believe him. In the real world, he’s right. But we are dealing with the underworld here, and the usual rules don’t apply.
Axl huffs and pulls his phone out. He taps a message out and then waits. One comes back almost immediately. “See?” he says triumphantly, shoving the phone in our faces, practically elbowing Cillian in the chin as he does. “Dad is on the case.”
Sorcha grabs the phone and stares at it, her face relaxing slightly before she covers it up and hands the phone back to Axl. “Thanks,” she says.
“You aren’t alone anymore,” I say. “You need to start remembering that.”
She nods and shuffles around to start walking again, her back ramrod straight.
“Dad says to keep going and lay low until we hear from him,” Axl says.
“Keep going where?” I ask.
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He has bigger shit to deal with than us wandering around tunnels in the dark.”
“Good point.”
Mercifully, the tunnel opens up slightly, giving us room to stand properly. The phone light sweeps across the space, revealing three different passages branching off.
“Brilliant,” she says. “Which way?”
I move up beside her, studying the options. The left passage looks newer, the walls less crumbling. The middle one slopes down sharply. The right curves away into darkness.
“The map,” Axl says, squeezing past Cillian to reach us.
“Look.” He shows us his phone again, of the picture he took of the map before the taskforce burst in.
He traces the lines with his finger, comparing them to where we are now.
“This one,” he says, pointing to the middle tunnel.
“If I’m reading this right, this should take us under the quad and towards the chapel. ”
“Should?” Sorcha asks, her eyebrow arching in that way that makes my dick twitch even in the worst situations.
“The map’s a few hundred years old,” I remind her. “Things shift. Tunnels collapse. But it’s our best shot.”
She stares at the dark mouth of the middle passage, and I watch her jaw set with determination. “Right. Middle it is.”
We file into the tunnel single file. This time, I go first, flashlight out, with Sorcha behind me, then Cillian, and then Axl behind her. The passage is wider, but steeper, forcing us to move carefully. Water drips somewhere ahead, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
My shoulders brush the walls on either side, and I have to duck occasionally when the ceiling dips. Behind me, I hear Cillian curse under his breath as he hits his head on a low beam.
“You good?” I call back.
“Define good,” he grunts.
My flashlight catches something ahead. It’s a junction where the tunnel splits again. “Fuck’s sake. This place is a maze.”
I study the options. The air feels different down the left passage, fresher somehow. “Left,” I say. “Feel that breeze? Means it connects to somewhere with ventilation.”
“Or it’s a dead end that’ll trap us,” Sorcha says, her voice tight in the enclosed space.
“Optimistic as always,” I mutter, but I take the left passage anyway. The breeze is subtle, but it’s there, carrying with it the faint smell of old stone and damp.
The tunnel narrows again, forcing me to turn sideways again. Next to me, I hear Sorcha’s breathing quicken.
“You still with me, Red?” I ask.
“Where else would I be?” she snaps back, but there’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before. The confined space is getting to her.
“Just checking.” I keep moving, my flashlight beam sweeping back and forth. It catches something carved into the stone. I stop, holding up a hand to signal the others. “Hold up.”
“What is it?” Sorcha asks, pressing close behind me.
I trace my fingers over the carving. It’s a symbol—three interlocking circles with a cross in the centre. “This mean anything to you?”
“No.”
I lean closer, studying the symbol. The stone is cold under my fingertips, and there’s something about the carving that feels deliberate, important. “Maybe it’s a marker,” I say, thinking out loud. “Like breadcrumbs showing the way.”
“Or a warning,” Cillian says from behind Sorcha.
I ignore him. If we see another one, we’ll know we’re on the right track or walking straight into a trap.
I keep moving, the tunnel continuing its downward slope.
“How much further?” Sorcha asks, and there’s a tremor in her voice now.
“Don’t know,” I admit. “But we keep going until we hit something.”
“Brilliant plan,” she mutters.
The tunnel opens up suddenly, and I emerge into a larger chamber. My flashlight sweeps across the space, revealing stone pillars and old wooden crates stacked against the walls. The ceiling is higher here, maybe three metres, and I can finally stand upright without hitting my head.
“Thank fuck,” Sorcha breathes, emerging behind me. She bends over, hands on her knees, sucking in deep breaths. “Thought I was going to lose my mind in there.”
Cillian and Axl emerge behind us, and I sweep my flashlight around the chamber more thoroughly.
The crates are old, maybe centuries old, their wood warped and crumbling.
Some have collapsed entirely, spilling their contents of rotted fabric, rusted metal, and things I can’t identify in the dim light.
“What is this place?” Sorcha asks, straightening up.
“Storage, maybe,” Axl says, moving over to examine one of the crates. “From when the college was first built.”
I move deeper into the chamber, my flashlight catching another one of those symbols carved into a pillar. “There,” I say, pointing. “Same marking.”
Sorcha comes to stand beside me, tilting her head to study it. “So, we’re going the right way.”
“Or someone wanted us to think we are,” Cillian says, ever the pessimist.
“Jesus, don’t you ever look on the bright side?” I ask him.
“There usually isn’t one,” he points out.
I scan the chamber for exits. There are two—one straight ahead and one to the right. The one ahead looks more worn, the threshold smooth from centuries of use. “That way,” I say, nodding towards it.
We move through the chamber, our boots echoing on the stone floor. The air is thicker here, musty and old, like we’re walking through time itself.
The passage on the other side is wider, tall enough that I don’t have to hunch, and I take the lead again. My flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating rough-hewn stone walls that look older than the previous sections.
Behind me, I hear Sorcha’s footsteps, light but steady now that we’re out of that claustrophobic nightmare. The fear in her voice from before has faded, replaced by that stubborn determination I’ve come to recognise as pure Sorcha Gannon.
“This place goes on forever,” she mutters.
“The college has been here for centuries,” Axl says. “God knows what’s buried under it.”
My light catches another symbol carved into the wall. “Still on track,” I announce, touching the carving. The stone is smooth here, worn down by countless hands before mine.
“How many of these symbols are there?” Cillian asks.
“As many as it takes, apparently.”
The tunnel curves to the left, and I follow it, my senses on high alert. We’re deep underground now, probably beneath the quad if Axl’s reading of the map was accurate. The weight of St. Bart’s sits above us, tons of stone and history pressing down.
A sound echoes ahead. Water, running water.
“You hear that?” Sorcha asks.
“Yeah.” I push forward, following the sound. The tunnel slopes down more steeply, and my boots splash through shallow puddles that have formed in the uneven floor. The running water grows louder with each step.
The passage opens into another chamber, this one with a stream cutting through the centre. It’s maybe about four metres wide, the water black and swift as it disappears into a gap in the far wall.
“Where does that go?” Sorcha asks, coming to stand beside me.
“Down,” I say, shining my light into the water. It’s impossible to see the bottom. “Probably to the lake eventually.”
Axl moves to the edge, studying the stream. “There’s a path along the side. We can cross.”
I sweep my light along the narrow ledge that runs beside the water. It’s maybe thirty centimetres wide, slick with moisture. One wrong step and whoever goes in isn’t coming back out. Not with that current.
“I’ll go first,” I say, because there’s no fucking way, I’m letting Sorcha attempt that crossing before me.
“Like hell,” she says. “I’m lighter. If anyone’s going to test it, it should be me.”
“Not happening, Red.”
Her jaw sets in that stubborn way that tells me she’s about to argue, but Cillian cuts in. “He’s right. You go in, we can’t pull you out fast enough. Ciar goes in, he’s got a better chance.”
She glares at both of us but doesn’t argue further. Smart girl. She knows when she’s outnumbered.
I test the ledge with my boot, feeling for loose stone. It holds. I edge out onto it, keeping my back pressed to the wall, my arms spread for balance. The water rushes below me, black and hungry.
One step. Two. The stone is slick under my boots, but I’ve got decent traction. I keep my eyes forward, not looking down at the water. That’s how people fuck up—they look at what they’re afraid of instead of where they need to go.
Halfway across, my boot slips, but I hold steady.
“Ciar!” Sorcha’s voice is sharp with fear.
“I’m good,” I grit out.
I make it to the other side, and I turn back, shining my light across. “Come on. One at a time.”
Sorcha goes next. I watch her edge out onto the ledge, her small frame pressed against the wall, her movements careful and deliberate.
My heart hammers in my chest, every protective instinct screaming at me to reach out and haul her across, but I’m too far away.
All I can do is shine the light and watch.
“Eyes on me, Red,” I call out. “Don’t look down.”
She doesn’t respond, but I see her jaw tighten as she inches forward. Her hand slides along the wall, searching for purchase on the slick stone. One step. Two. Her boot slips slightly in the same spot mine did, and my breath catches.
“You’re good,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse is racing. “Just keep coming.”
She makes it halfway, then freezes. The water rushes below her, and I see her chest heaving with rapid breaths.
“Sorcha,” I say, my voice firm. “Look at me.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and terrified in the flashlight beam.
“You’ve got this. Three more steps and I can reach you.”
She shakes her head, and some deep, dark memory surfaces for her and sends her into a downward spiral that has her breath hitching and panic flashing in her eyes.