Page 24 of One Last Stand

All clear.

London stepped out from behind the trio of birch trees and sneaked toward the house. Hawkeye had been a zealot for security—she remembered that from her first go-round with this place. Nearly got caught by Moose coming out onto his deck. But over the past year, she’d mapped it, knew how to dodge the lights all the way to the root cellar located in a shelter that also contained Moose’s supply of firewood.

Funny that he’d never figured out that this root cellar, located some twenty feet from his house, actually led to a space under the house, Hawkeye’s nest. Which meant it’d ended up being a genius place to hide the bio card.

Then again, Moose didn’t seem to spend a lot of time in his yard. Mostly sat on the deck, or grilled steaks, or hung out at Air One, so . . .

Or maybe he knew and simply hadn’t said anything.

She scooted into the shadows under the shelter, waited behind the wood, but the house stayed quiet. A heartbeat, then she opened the root cellar and descended the wooden stairs to the earthen floor.

Empty, smelling of dirt and age. Maybe once upon a time, homesteaders had stored their potatoes and dairy and anything they wanted to keep safe for winter here. In the daylight, standing on Moose’s deck, she could make out the remains of a foundation, so her guess was it might have been dug under the floor of a homesteader’s house.

Now, Moose’s beautiful timber home—a mansion, really—stood overlooking the river, imperious and oblivious to the control center inside.

She headed to a built-in bookshelf and pressed a latch, and the shelf jerked. She had to wrestle it open, and it shook a little, but behind it was a metal door with a push-button mechanical code. Seven numbers. She pulled out her notebook, paged it open, and shone her phone light on it, then pressed the numbers in the correct order and the door unlatched.

The door refused to budge, probably age and disuse rendering the hinges stiff. She put her shoulder against it and finally moved it, the squeal raising the tiny hairs on her neck. But it came open enough for her to squeeze inside. Then she pulled the shelf tight against the opening and pressed the door closed—again, putting her weight behind it.

Pitch darkness, except for her phone light. She ran her hand over the cement walls and found the switch. Turned it on.

Lights illuminated a cement tunnel that went all the way to the house, another metal door on the other end.

What Moose didn’t know—probably—was that he could arrive home and discover her sitting in his sauna room or even watching television in the basement without having touched a lock on his doors.

The place reeked of moisture, despite the attempts at sealing it, the bunker moldy and damp. She hustled down the twenty or so feet toward the far door, same mechanical lock, same code, and then let herself inside the safe room.

Moose had an office upstairs with a couple built-in flatscreens that showed exactly the same pictures that these screens displayed. However, his security setup didn’t include satellite coverage of the Black Swan mansion slash fortress in Switzerland. Or a dedicated satellite communication line from what looked like a defunct massive satellite near the shore.

Moose had once mentioned taking it out, but London had quietly shut him down, mentioning disposal costs. The guy pinched pennies like no one she knew.

Now she turned on the computers, and the screens came to life, fed by the electricity from the house. She turned on the satellite link to the mansion too, then sat down in the desk chair as Ziggy’s face appeared on the screen.

“What took you so long?” Her voice came through the speakers.

“I had to pick up the code and . . . some things. Where is Shep?”

“Tomas sent me coordinates. Said to come alone.”

“He’s going to try to kill me.”

“Probably. Or maybe he just wants his money.”

“Not his money. The Bratva’s money.”

“And now your money.”

“It was never my money. I’m just holding it.”

Ziggy’s mouth made a tight line. “Okay.”

London tried to read her mentor’s dark eyes. “Did you know?”

Ziggy frowned.

“That Tomas was alive?”

Ziggy’s shoulders rose and fell. “Yes. We found him after you left but decided not to tell you.”

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