Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Garage
Adrian dragged himself out from behind the canvas cart, his face gray and glistening with cold sweat.
The folded towel Sophie had given him was completely saturated with dark blood.
"Grandma," Adrian murmured, his voice strained as he struggled to stand upright.
"You shouldn't be down here."
"Hush, boy," Eleanor snapped, though her eyes softened with immediate concern as she saw the wound on his arm.
"You never learned how to run properly when you were eight years old, and you certainly haven't learned at thirty."
Sophie rushed forward to support Adrian's good side, draping his right arm over her shoulders.
His body heat was alarmingly high, radiating a feverish warmth through his damp shirt.
"He needs a trauma surgeon immediately, Mrs. Russo," Sophie urged, feeling the weight of him pulling her down.
"The bullet grazed an artery; he’s losing too much blood."
"No hospitals," Adrian grunted through clenched teeth.
"The emergency rooms are already flagged by city dispatch."
"The moment my name hits an admission log, the tactical unit will arrive before the stitches are tied."
Eleanor hobbled toward the rusted iron utility door at the end of the boiler room.
From her dressing gown pocket, she pulled an old brass skeleton key that looked older than the mansion itself.
"Your grandfather built this addition during the waterfront strikes fifty years ago," Eleanor said as she turned the heavy key in the lock.
"The city plans show a sealed coal room."
"They never registered the drainage tunnel connecting to the carriage house out back."
The heavy iron hinges groaned with a muffled screech as Eleanor pushed the door inward.
A blast of damp, earthy air rushed out, carrying the scent of wet mortar, mold, and old gasoline.
A narrow subterranean passage stretched into total darkness, lit only by the faint glow from the laundry room.
"Sophie, help him through," Eleanor commanded.
"We have less than three minutes before that detective realizes the cellar has more than one exit."
Sophie didn't hesitate.
She tightened her grip around Adrian's waist and guided him across the threshold into the dark corridor.
The floor beneath their feet was uneven brick, slick with decades of condensation.
Behind them, Eleanor stepped into the tunnel and pulled the iron door shut until it clicked softly into the latch.
Adrian’s smartphone buzzed suddenly inside his coat pocket.
The sharp vibration startled them all in the claustrophobic darkness.
Adrian leaned against the damp brick wall and pulled the device out with trembling fingers.
The screen illuminated the three faces with a cold, pale light.
A new text message appeared on the cracked glass from an unknown ten-digit number.
DELETE THE RECORDING RIGHT NOW OR YOU WON'T MAKE IT PAST THE FRONT GATE.
Sophie felt a chill race down her spine.
"Who has that number?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper in the echoing tunnel.
"Only four people," Adrian replied, his breathing growing increasingly shallow.
"My direct business partner, my primary driver, my lead attorney, and the personal dispatch desk."
"Someone on the inside gave you up," Eleanor stated flatly, her voice entirely devoid of surprise.
"Loyalty in this city lasts only until the price of treason goes up."
Another buzz shook the phone.
A second message flashed on the screen:
REEVES IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. HE HAS ORDERS TO SHOOT ON SIGHT.
Adrian stared at the glowing letters, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped beneath his skin.
"We can't go out toward the front gates," Adrian muttered.
"They have snipers on the perimeter line."
"We aren't going to the front gate," Eleanor said calmly, leading the way with the steady rhythm of her cane.
"We are going to the carriage house behind the greenhouse."
They walked in agonizing slowness for nearly two hundred yards through the underground passage.
Adrian’s steps grew heavier with every yard, his knees buckling twice before Sophie caught him with all her strength.
"Stay with me, Adrian," she pleaded under her breath.
"Don't you dare pass out on me down here."
"I'm trying, Sophie," he whispered, his head resting against her shoulder.
"You're remarkably strong for a girl who complains about carrying heavy laundry hampers."
"Adrenaline works miracles, Mr. Russo."
They reached a short flight of concrete stairs that led up to a heavy wooden trapdoor.
Eleanor unlatched the iron bolt from below and pushed the hatch upward into the shadows of the detached garage.
The garage smelled of motor oil, dry rubber, and aged leather.
Parked in the center of the bay, hidden beneath a layer of dust, sat a twenty-year-old dark blue sedan.
There were no digital navigation screens on the dashboard, no electronic key fobs, and no factory GPS trackers.
"Your grandfather's 2004 Buick," Eleanor said, tossing an old set of brass keys to Sophie.
"No satellite uplink, no remote engine shutoff, and no police registry tied to your name."
"Can you drive a manual transmission, young lady?"
Sophie caught the keys in the palm of her hand.
"My father taught me on an old farm truck."
"Good," Eleanor said, moving toward the rear passenger door.
Before Sophie could open the driver's side door, high-intensity headlights suddenly washed across the frosted glass windows of the garage doors.
A police cruiser had just pulled up directly outside the carriage house entrance.
A shadow moved past the side window, followed by the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps approaching the garage service door.
Sophie froze, her hand gripping the steering wheel keys like a weapon.
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Adrian tried to push himself up, but his strength failed completely, and he collapsed onto the concrete floor beside the tire.
The brass handle of the garage door began to turn.
