Chapter 40 - The Fire on Capitol Hill
The boiler room was a vision from an industrial hell.
Towering iron boilers, three stories high and banded with thick rivets, hissed and groaned under dangerous pressure. Gauges on the brass control manifolds were pinned deep into the red. Through the iron grates of the firebox doors, blinding white flames cast roaring, demonic shadows across the soot-blackened walls.
In the center of the room, standing beside the master emergency venting lever, stood General Vane.
He had wrapped his bleeding shoulder in a torn tablecloth. In his left hand, he held a heavy iron wrench; in his right, resting upon the wooden handle of the boiler’s emergency safety valve, was a lit road flare that sputtered with a blinding, crimson flame.
At his feet lay the leather portfolio containing the master ledger.
"Step back, Caleb!" Vane screamed over the deafening roar of escaping steam. "One step, and I drop the flare into the coal hopper! The dust in this room will take the whole mountain with it!"
"It's over, Vane!" Caleb yelled, his voice echoing off the iron tanks. "The marshals have taken the upper halls! Sterling has surrendered! There's no syndicate army coming to save you!"
"I don't need an army!" Vane shrieked, his eyes wild with the madness of a cornered beast. "If I can't have this territory, no one will! You broke me, Vance! You took my command, my honor, my wealth—"
"You sold your own honor, General," Clara’s voice rang out, stepping out from behind the iron catwalk support.
Vane’s eyes darted to her, his sneer deepening into a mask of pure hatred. "The bride of Black Ridge... I should have burned that carriage when you crossed the state line."
"You tried," Clara said coldly. "And you failed."
While Vane’s attention was fixed on Clara, Caleb made his move.
He did not fire his gun—a spark in the gas-filled room would ignite the atmosphere instantly. Instead, Caleb lunged forward across the slick iron floorboards, hurling his heavy body low, tackling Vane around the knees.
Both men crashed violently into the iron railing surrounding the coal pit.
The road flare flew from Vane’s hand, bouncing across the grate, rolling toward the edge of the open hopper where thousands of pounds of fine coal dust lay exposed to the heat.
"Clara! The flare!" Caleb roared, his hands locked around Vane’s throat as the mad general fought back with savage, dying fury, gouging at Caleb’s scarred eye with his thumb.
Clara sprinted forward, her boots slipping on the grease-covered steel. The flare was inches from falling into the dark pit. She threw herself flat against the burning hot iron plates, her fingers reaching out, scorching her palms as she clamped her hand around the burning casing.
With a gasp of agony, she hurled the flare into the water-filled ash trough beneath the central boiler. The flare sizzled violently and died in a puff of white steam.
Behind her, a sickening *crunch* echoed through the room.
Caleb stood up slowly from the railing.
At his feet, General Vane lay motionless, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle against the iron edge of the coal chute, his unblinking eyes staring up into the shadows of the ceiling.
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Caleb stood there, his chest heaving, his face covered in soot and blood. Slowly, he knelt down, picked up the leather portfolio, and pulled out the thick, vellum-bound master ledger. He looked up at Clara, who was clutching her blistered hand to her chest.
"We have it," Caleb whispered. "It's over."
