I shoved the journal inside my satchel and relocked the drawer, leaving the key in place.
I jogged out into the corridor and stopped in front of the wall that separated me from the 42nd Street Shuttle Line. Leaning my ear against it, I heard more noises, different ones this time.
Buzzing.
Cutting.
Pounding.
It sounded like somebody was building a house on the other side of the wall. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I bellowed as loudly as my lungs would allow. “Can you hear me?”
I put my ear back to the wall. The noises continued without pause.
I turned my attention to the wall itself. Using my beam, I scanned it for a lever or a button or anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
I expanded my search. But no matter where I looked, the wall appeared flat and unadorned.
Frustrated, I braced myself and rammed my shoulder into the concrete. Pain shot through my upper body. I turned the flashlight back to the wall and studied it.
Nothing.
It hadn’t budged an inch.
Lowering my shoulder again, I drove it back into the wall. A stinging soreness ripped through my body. But still, the concrete surface refused to move.
Rearing back, I smashed my shoulder into the wall again and again. My mind started to slip away. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t feel pain.
Six straight times I drove my shoulder into the wall.
Six times.
And yet, nothing.
I paused for a moment, panting. The situation didn’t call for brute strength. It called for intelligence.
I expanded my search to the nearby walls. I scoured the concrete on one side of the passageway and then on the other.
Finally, I saw something that brought a weary grin to my face.
A skull and pickaxes.
The symbol was small and etched out of concrete above my head. I stared at it for a few seconds. What did it mean?
I pushed the center of the etching. It resisted my pressure for a few seconds. Then, it slowly depressed into the concrete.
The wall clicked.
The ground rumbled.
Dust shot into the air.
I heard slight scraping as the door opened toward me. Intense relief formed in the pit of my stomach.
Bright light burst into the hidden passageway. I shielded my eyes, stepped forward, and looked out onto the non-pedestrian track that connected the 42nd Street Shuttle Line to the Lexington Avenue Line. Amazement crept through me, twisting my facial features into knots.
No more than two hours had passed since I’d first entered the laboratory. And in that brief amount of time, the subway tunnel had undergone an astounding transformation.
Overhead fixtures shone blinding light down on the space, eliminating all signs of darkness. Temporary concrete dams blocked both ends of the tunnel. The track bed, once covered with nearly a foot of water, had been completely drained thanks to two separate pump hoses. Battery-operated fans whirred, drying the tunnel’s last remnants of water.
Directly in front of me, a recently constructed twenty-foot long temporary platform, built from thick wood planks and other materials, rose into the air. It appeared to line up with the concrete ledge, creating a sizeable elevated workspace. Three workers knelt on the platform with their backs to me, examining a couple of handheld hammer drills.
Slightly dazed, I looked around. My eyes caught a glimpse of Beverly Ginger standing off to the side, just beneath the platform. She wore slim-fitting cargo pants, a tank top, and a hardhat. Two women and a man surrounded her and they appeared to be engaged in a heated conversation.
I walked onto the platform and knelt down. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Beverly froze. Then, she waved the others away and ever so slowly, peered up at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I should be asking you the same question. You told me you were going to abandon your search. Well, wait until you see —”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Something in her voice gave me pause. “What do you mean?”
“You have to get out of here. Don’t ask questions. Just go.”
“But…”
A new voice sounded. One I recognized.
One I despised.
“How are you, Cyclone?”
I shifted my glance. Ryan Standish stood several feet away on the platform. He wore a hardhat and a cocky expression on his face.
I went numb. It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t work for ShadowFire. He didn’t know Beverly.
All of a sudden, I realized that the cacique retrieval job in Colombia had been a set-up. From the very beginning, Chase, Standish, and Beverly had conspired to manipulate me. But for what purpose?
Lights flashed in my eyes. A severe headache raged inside my skull. I tried to keep my emotions from raging out of control. “I’m fine,” I replied. “I’m surprised to see you here. I guess ShadowFire doesn’t believe in hiring standards.”
He stepped forward. “I’m the one who should be surprised. Beverly said you snuck out of town.”
Instinctively, I stepped backward, vaguely aware I was reentering the passageway. “Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you.”
Standish stopped at the mouth of the passageway and leaned up against the concrete wall. “Oh I’m not disappointed. In fact, I’m thrilled.”
He looked over my shoulder into the laboratory. Then, he smiled. “You’ve done good work down here, Cy. Great work even. I’m impressed. Really, there’s only one more thing I need you to do.”
“What’s that?”
Suddenly, his hands flew to his belt, a blur of speed and force.
He yanked out a gun and pointed it in my direction.
“Die,” he said in a cold tone. “I need you to die.”
Chapter 27
Stall!
The thought raced through my mind, like a runaway subway car. I needed to buy time.
Time to think, time to strategize.
Time to curse my stupidity.
I should’ve known something was wrong. But now, thanks to my lousy instincts, I stood in the front half of the sealed-off laboratory. Standish’s large, burly form occupied the passageway, blocking the only exit. Nothing but floor rested between us. There was no place to hide. No cover.
Nothing.
I thought about reaching for my weapons. But Standish’s gun caused me to rethink that strategy. The moment I moved, I knew he’d kill me.
“I always knew you were an asshole,” I said. “I just never figured you for a corporate asshole.”
He laughed. “During the Iraq War, Jack Chase realized he could pad his profit margin by appropriating things from local museums and archaeological sites. He needed someone to manage his various digs and fence his artifacts. So, he hired me. We’ve been working together ever since.”
“A match made in hell.”
“Call it what you like. But it’s been a big success.”
“So, when Chase found out about the Nazi gold, he hired you to find it.”
A slow smile spread across Standish’s face. “That’s just the consolation prize. I’m after something else.”
I took a stab in the dark. “Die Glocke?”
“Very impressive. How do you know about it?”
“Lucky guess,” I replied. “That explains why you needed me. You’re not a treasure hunter. Heck, you’re not even an archaeologist. You’d never have found this place on your own.”
His face darkened. “Kolen and Adcock worked for me, although they didn’t know it at the time. After they vanished, we searched every inch of these tunnels for them. When they failed to turn up, Chase decided to bring in outside help.”
“In other words, he lost confidence in you and decided to bring in a real expert.”