Chapter 8 - The Subterranean Route
The hidden tunnel smelled of damp earth and old iron, stretching into the blackness like the throat of a cave.
I shifted the sedan into drive, keeping the headlights off until the car rolled entirely past the heavy concrete threshold. As the hidden door began to slide shut behind us, cutting off the dim yellow light of the parking garage, I clicked the headlights on.
The beam sliced through the dust, illuminating narrow concrete walls reinforced with steel ribs.
“Mommy, where are we going?” Chloe asked softly from the back seat, her voice shaking as she peeked over the armrest.
“We’re taking a shortcut, baby. Just hold on tight,” I answered, keeping my foot light on the gas pedal as the car crawled down the steep incline.
My mind was a chaotic storm of fear and agonizing questions. Who was the board? Why did they want James dead? And how did my past as a corporate financial analyst intersect with a billionaire restaurant tycoon hiding a subterranean bunker beneath downtown Chicago?
Five years ago, before Richard destroyed my life, I had worked for Vanguard Holdings, auditing high-level corporate mergers. One of my final audits before I fled had involved a massive, hostile takeover bid orchestrated by a secretive conglomerate known only as the Orion Board—a syndicate of ruthless investors who bought failing restaurant chains and luxury properties to launder offshore capital.
The CEO of that syndicate?
A man named Arthur Sterling.
And Arthur Sterling happened to be James Whitmore’s adoptive uncle—and the man who had supposedly died in a suspicious yacht explosion two years ago.
If Sterling was still alive, and if the board was trying to wrest control of the Whitmore Group through violence, James wasn't just a wealthy businessman protecting his assets. He was the last standing obstacle in a corporate war being fought with real blood.
The tunnel leveled out, the concrete walls giving way to an old, vaulted brick corridor that smelled faintly of river water.
Up ahead, a red warning light flashed above a heavy iron gate blocking our path.
I hit the brakes. The car came to a smooth stop a few feet from the gate.
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Before I could figure out how to open it, the car’s dashboard radio—which had been silent the entire time—suddenly hissed to life with a burst of static, followed by a strained, familiar voice.
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