“Gerald and Winston Aldrich. They caught her photographing their operation, just as Melissa did.”
“They’ve been protecting themselves for generations,” Brooks muttered.
“Yes.” She glanced toward the tunnel. “We should proceed.”
They entered together, Brooks leading with his flashlight, Vivienne following with her compass. Tunnel walls pressed close, slick with moisture. Their footsteps echoed, mixing with distant waves. After two hundred yards, they reached a three-way junction with minimal LED lighting.
Vivienne consulted her compass. “The hidden cove route is right.”
As they proceeded, the passage curved rightward, following the coastline’s contour. Water trickled along the walls. Thunder rumbled through stone.
Brooks paused, raising his hand. Vivienne froze. A mechanical sound—rhythmic, regular. The idling motor of a boat.
“Someone’s at the cove exit.”
Vivienne reached for the vial of cove water. “My great-grandmother Josephine could see visions in water.”
She smeared a thin film onto the back of her hand and focused. The liquid shifted, patterns forming.
An image appeared. A boat moored at the narrow dock. Two men loading crates. The Aldrich family crest visible on the bow.
“They’re moving crates. Two men, one boat.”
Brooks absorbed this, treating her reports no differently than surveillance data. “Can you tell what’s in the crates?”
The water dried, image fading. “No. But they’re handling them with extreme care.”
Brooks checked his watch. “Follow the boat and potentially locate Melissa, or return to meet Sullivan?”
The compass needle swung between symbols. “There’s another option. A passage between here and the secondary location. A branch we missed.”
They retraced their steps. Vivienne moved along the right wall, running her fingers over rough stone. The compass responded, its needle quivering more intensely near a particular section.
This secondary tunnel stretched narrower, requiring single file. Different construction—raw bedrock with occasional wooden supports that creaked as they passed.
They moved cautiously. After several minutes, they detected a faint sound ahead. A generator, humming through stone.
The passage widened. Dim light leaked around a ventilation grate. Vivienne knelt beside it. Brooks joined her, their shoulders touching as they peered through.
Below stretched a chamber carved into bedrock. LED work lights illuminated storage and holding area. Crates stacked against one wall—specialized containers lined with lead shielding, bearing hazard symbols obscured by the Aldrich logo.
The largest crate stood partially open, revealing ancient artifacts—small statues, tablets with unfamiliar script, metal objects. Vivienne recognized several pieces from her grandmother’s journals—items from the Mediterranean and North Africa that had disappeared from museums. Archaeological treasures smuggled through private channels.
In the corner, a woman sat bound to a chair. Melissa Clarkson. Alive.
A single guard occupied the chamber, preoccupied with his phone.
“She’s here. We need to coordinate with Sullivan’s team.”
Vivienne nodded, but her attention fixed on another detail. Water. A thin trickle seeping through a fissure in the far wall. She remembered the tidal charts—spring tide, rising rapidly, amplified by the approaching storm.
“Brooks. Look at the water.”
He followed her gaze, understanding dawning. “How fast will it rise?”
“In a storm? These lower chambers could flood within hours.” She checked her compass again, its needle spinning. “The Aldriches know. That’s why they’re evacuating contraband.”
“They’re leaving her to drown. Making it look like she got trapped during the storm.” Brooks pulled out his phone, checking for signal. Nothing. Too deep underground.
