Chapter 42 - The Vault Beneath the Embers
The road ended where the mountain met the tree line. The skeletal remains of the Blackwood Ridge hunting lodge rose out of the snow like the ribcage of an ancient beast. Charred cedar beams reached upward into the falling sleet, coated in thick rime.
Cole cut the SUV's headlights five hundred yards down the fire road. The three men stepped into the freezing wind, boots sinking into six inches of fresh powder that masked the jagged rubble of the five-year-old fire.
"Thermal scan is clean on the surface," Arthur said, holding a handheld infrared monitor. "Nothing moving among the ruins. But look at the base of the central chimney."
Through the crosshairs of the thermal lens, a faint, unnatural plume of warmth shimmered against the stone hearth. It was barely two degrees higher than the ambient snow, but in the sub-zero chill, it bled violet and amber on the screen.
Jonathan led the way, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every step through the ash brought back ghost-memories of Julianna: her laughter on the wrap-around porch, the smell of woodsmoke, the blankets they had bundled around her frail shoulders when the illness began to hollow her out. To think that Victoria had walked these same grounds, planting seeds of malice beneath the floorboards where Julianna took her final breaths, made Jonathan feel physically ill.
Cole reached the massive hearth first, his tactical light sweeping the blackened hearthstones. He knelt down, scraping away a layer of frozen moss with the tip of his combat knife. Beneath the debris, a thin line of brass emerged.
"Hydraulic lift," Cole muttered. "Hidden inside the ash dump."
Arthur stepped forward and plugged a bypass lead into the exposed wiring behind the brass plate. "Standard biometric latch, but it's wired into the old Vance domestic circuit. Jonathan, give me your hand."
Jonathan pressed his thumb against the icy glass of the scanner. For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, deep within the frozen bedrock, a counterweight groaned.
A five-foot slab of flagstone tilted downward with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a spiral staircase lined with corrugated steel and illuminated by recessed LED strips. The air that drifted up from the shaft wasn't stale; it smelled of antiseptic, baby powder, and industrial ozone.
"Stay behind me," Cole ordered, drawing his weapon and taking the steps two at a time, silent as a cat.
Jonathan followed, Arthur bringing up the rear with the communication pack. They descended thirty feet into the subterranean belly of the ridge. The cold of the mountain melted away, replaced by the humming warmth of a hospital corridor.
At the bottom of the spiral stairs lay a reinforced steel blast door. Stenciled in black industrial paint across the center were the words:
*ROOM 04 — REPRODUCTIVE ARCHIVES & SURROGACY SUITE*
The door was unlocked. It stood ajar by two inches, a strip of bright white light spilling across the polished concrete floor.
Cole pushed the door open with the barrel of his weapon, slicing the room with his sights. "Clear left! Clear right!"
Jonathan shoved past him into the light.
The room was pristine, an exact match for the video feed they had seen fifteen minutes earlier. Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, filled with medical supplies, sealed saline drips, and rows of empty cryo-canisters. In the center of the room stood the steel crib, draped in clean white cotton blankets.
Jonathan rushed to the crib, his breath catching in his throat.
May you like
The blankets were neatly folded. The silver rattle lay resting in the center.
The crib was empty.
