CHAPTER 15 Maeve #2
I look at myself in the mirror. The bruises on my neck are still violently visible above the collar of the shirt. They look like a brand. A reminder of exactly what happens when you fail to anticipate a threat.
I walk back out into the living room.
Declan is standing near the door, a heavy canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks at me, his eyes sweeping over the tactical gear, assessing the fit. He nods once, a short, approving motion.
"The laptop is in the waterproof casing inside the bag," he says, handing me a small, heavy flashlight. "Keep this clipped to your belt. The tunnels are completely unlit."
I clip the flashlight to my waist. "Are we taking the car?"
"No. We are taking the service elevator to the sub-basement of this hotel. The drainage grid connects directly beneath us. We will walk the mile underground."
He opens the heavy mahogany door of the penthouse.
We step out into the quiet, carpeted hallway. Declan uses his cloned keycard to call the service elevator. The ride down takes almost two minutes, the numbers above the door dropping steadily from the penthouse level to the lobby, and then further down into the concrete foundation of the building.
The doors open to a dark, unfinished concrete corridor. It smells like damp earth and old standing water.
Declan clicks on a heavy tactical flashlight, the bright white beam cutting through the gloom. He leads the way down the corridor, stopping in front of a heavy iron grate set into the floor.
He hands me his flashlight, grips the iron bars, and hauls the grate up with a harsh, metallic groan.
A wave of foul, stagnant air rushes up from the hole.
"Stay close to the wall," Declan instructs, dropping into the hole. He lands with a soft splash. "The center of the tunnel is an active drainage channel. The water is roughly ankle-deep, but the current can be unpredictable if the municipal pumps cycle on."
I take a deep breath, trying not to gag at the smell, and climb down the rusted iron ladder.
My boots hit the concrete ledge running alongside the central channel. The tunnel is massive, easily ten feet wide, built of old, decaying brick and concrete. The sound of running water echoes endlessly in the dark.
Declan takes his flashlight back. "Keep your voice down. Sound travels for miles down here."
We start walking.
The environment is oppressive. The air is thick and humid, clinging to my skin under the compression shirt. Every sound we make—the squeak of rubber soles on wet concrete, the slight rustle of our clothing—is magnified by the tunnel walls.
We walk in silence for thirty minutes. The only light is the beam of Declan’s flashlight sweeping the path ahead.
"We are approaching the access point," Declan murmurs, stopping abruptly.
He points the beam of light at the right wall of the tunnel. Set into the old brick is a heavy, modern steel door. It looks completely out of place in the decaying sewer. A small, red LED light blinks near the handle.
"Electronic lock," I whisper.
"Leo provided a bypass sequence," Declan says, setting the duffel bag down on the dry concrete ledge. He pulls out a small, black electronic device with a series of wires attached to it.
He steps up to the door, attaching the wires to the exposed panel beneath the card reader.
I stand behind him, watching the red LED light. My heart is hammering against my ribs, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.
The device hums quietly. Ten seconds pass. Twenty.
The red light turns green.
A heavy, mechanical clack echoes through the tunnel as the deadbolt retracts.
Declan unplugs the device, shoving it back into his pocket. He draws his weapon, holding it low against his leg.
"Stay behind me," he orders quietly.
He grabs the heavy handle and pulls the steel door open.
The room beyond the door is a stark contrast to the sewer. It is brightly lit, sterile, and freezing cold. The hum of massive server racks fills the air.
We step inside, Declan pulling the steel door shut behind us.
"Which terminal?" he asks, his eyes scanning the room.
"The central console," I say, pointing to a desk set up in the middle of the server racks. "That's the primary access node."
I walk quickly toward the desk, pulling the waterproof casing out of the duffel bag. I extract the laptop and set it on the metal surface. I find the heavy, braided ethernet cable connected to the cartel's mainframe and plug it directly into my machine.
"Connecting," I say, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
The screen flares to life. Leo's script initiates automatically, searching for the backdoor in the cartel's firewall.
Bypassing Security Protocols. 10%...
"It's working," I whisper, the relief making my voice shake slightly.
"Three minutes," Declan says, standing near the door, his weapon raised.
30%... 50%...
The progress bar is moving faster than it did in Chicago. Stripping the code worked. We are going to drain the accounts, wipe the logs, and disappear back into the sewer before the automated security sweep even realizes we are here.
70%... 80%...
"Almost there," I say, my eyes glued to the screen.
90%...
The progress bar freezes.
The screen flashes red.
A loud, piercing alarm begins to blare from the ceiling of the server room. It isn't the quiet, localized buzzer from Chicago. It is a massive, industrial siren designed to wake the dead.
"Maeve!" Declan barks over the noise.
"I don't understand!" I hit the enter key frantically. "The script stalled! Something is blocking the final transfer!"
"The security sweep triggered early," Declan says, stepping away from the door. He looks up at the ceiling. "The blast doors are engaging."
I look toward the entrance. A heavy, solid sheet of steel is slowly descending from the ceiling, sliding down over the door we just came through.
"No, no, no," I mutter, typing a manual override command into the terminal. The screen remains stubbornly red. Transfer Failed. Network Lockout Initiated.
The heavy steel blast door hits the floor with a deafening crash, sealing us inside the room.
The siren cuts off abruptly, replaced by a chilling, automated voice echoing from the intercom system.
Sub-basement lockdown complete. Security personnel dispatched. ETA: two minutes.
I stare at the locked blast door, the blood draining completely from my face.
We didn't bypass the trap.
We walked right into it.