33. Caleb
CALEB
Walter wants us inside the vault.
That’s reason enough to stay out.
The twelve guards stand motionless around him. Their weapons are lowered, but their fingers rest beside the triggers.
Every man wears the same armor.
Carries the same equipment.
Holds himself with the same unnatural stillness.
No names.
No ranks.
No individuality.
The First Circle doesn’t want soldiers.
It wants believers.
Rook remains outside the threshold. “You’re out of exits, Graves.”
Walter glances toward the timer on the wall.
“So are you.”
Twenty-seven minutes.
The bunker is preparing to bury everyone inside it.
Including Walter.
He doesn’t look concerned.
Which means he has another way out.
“Where’s the Chairman?” I ask.
Walter’s expression changes.
Only slightly.
“You still assume the Chairman is a man.”
“Isn’t he?”
“The Chairman is continuity. The person is irrelevant.”
Mac steps forward.
“No. The person is protected above everything else.”
Walter looks at him.
“Mac Stenson. Still pretending your conscience makes you better than the rest of us?”
“It makes me better than you.”
For the first time, Walter’s smile disappears.
One of the armored men turns his head toward Mac.
Recognition passes through his eyes.
“Administrator Stenson.”
Mac stiffens.
“You abandoned your post.”
“I escaped.”
“There is no difference.”
The guard’s voice is flat.
Not angry.
Certain.
“The Chairman ordered your execution.”
Mac’s jaw tightens. “The Chairman can die like anyone else.”
A flicker crosses the guard’s expression.
Pity.
“The Chairman cannot die.”
Evie moves close enough for her shoulder to touch my back.
“They’ve been indoctrinated,” she whispers.
I know.
That makes them more dangerous than mercenaries.
Mercenaries want to survive long enough to be paid.
These men believe dying will preserve something greater than themselves.
Walter looks past me toward Evie.
“Your father stood in this room.”
Her breathing stops.
“When?” she asks.
“Three days before his death.”
I feel her body go rigid behind me.
“You murdered him.”
Walter tilts his head. “Daniel Hart was offered a choice.”
“To join you?”
“To protect his daughter.”
My hands tighten around my rifle.
Walter is twisting the truth because he knows grief creates doubt.
Evie doesn’t give him the satisfaction.
“My father would never help you.”
“No. He wouldn’t.”
Walter’s expression turns almost regretful.
“That was the problem.”
Caleb’s father, Daniel Hart, the men killed on the mountain—every death leads deeper into this room.
“Why my father?” I ask.
Walter looks at me.
“Your father found something he wasn’t meant to see.”
“What?”
“The same thing you found.”
His gaze shifts toward the Second Circle ledger in Fathom’s pack.
“The names of men who own nations.”
A recorded voice fills the chamber.
Older.
Cultured.
The Chairman.
“If you are hearing this, Shadow Division has survived longer than projected.”
Fathom looks at his tablet. “Recording.”
“Where is the live transmission coming from?” Rook asks.
“Not here.”
The Chairman’s recording continues.
“Survival, however, has never been the true test.”
The twelve guards lift their rifles.
“Loyalty is.”
Walter steps backward.
The floor behind him opens, revealing a narrow stairway.
His escape route.
“Stop him,” Rook orders.
Walter runs.
The First Circle unit raises its weapons.
And the vault explodes into gunfire.