Page 90 of Dead Air
thirty-four
Darkness swallowedthem as they descended the stone steps. Damp air chilled Lawson's skin, carrying the earthy scent of decades-old brickwork and stagnant water. Richardson switched on a small tactical flashlight. The narrow beam revealed brick walls slick with moisture and a tunnel barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side.
"Watch your step," Richardson warned. "Floor's uneven."
Their footsteps echoed in the confined space. Water dripped somewhere ahead, a steady metronome counting seconds as they moved deeper beneath the estate. Lawson kept her weapon ready, eyes straining to detect movement beyond Richardson's light.
"These tunnels connect to the river?" she asked, voice hushed.
"Built during Prohibition for rum-running. The original owner smuggled liquor from ships to distribution points throughout Savannah." Richardson swept his light across moisture-stained walls. "Byrd discovered them when renovating the pool house. Maintained them as an emergency exit."
Ahead, footprints marked the muddy floor. Small, precise indentations from expensive heels. Byrd moving at speed despite the darkness and uneven terrain.
"She's familiar with this route," Lawson observed.
"Practiced it monthly, according to my surveillance." Richardson's breathing remained controlled despite their pace. "Thirty-minute direct path to a boathouse on the river."
The tunnel forked unexpectedly. Both paths disappeared into identical darkness. The footprints stopped at the junction, revealing where Byrd had paused to consider her options.
Richardson knelt, examining the ground. "Left tunnel's her usual route. Right leads to a maintenance shaft that emerges near the gatehouse."
"So which did she take?"
He pointed his light at barely perceptible marks in the mud. "Right tunnel. She's improvising."
They followed the narrower passage. The ceiling lowered, forcing them to hunch as they moved forward. Richardson's light revealed ancient support beams sagging beneath the weight of earth above. Decades of moisture had rotted the wood, leaving structural integrity questionable at best.
"This section wasn't properly maintained," Richardson said. "Byrd avoided it during practice runs."
A gunshot cracked through the tunnel. The bullet struck brick inches from Lawson's head, sending fragments stinging against her cheek. She dropped instinctively, pulling Richardson down with her.
"Kill the light!" she hissed.
Darkness enveloped them. Lawson blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Twenty yards ahead, a faint glow revealed Byrd's position. The judge had found emergency lighting in this section, giving herself an advantage over her pursuers.
"Give up, Elizabeth," Richardson called. "Federal agents are stationed at both exits by now. Nowhere to go."
"Always an exit strategy, Tom." Byrd's voice echoed from ahead. "You taught me that during our first corruption investigation."
"That was different. We were pursuing justice then."
"We're still pursuing justice. My definition simply evolved beyond your limited perspective."
Richardson motioned to the right. A small alcove offered minimal cover. They shuffled sideways, pressing against damp brick.
"She has eight rounds in that pistol," Richardson whispered. "Beretta 21A Bobcat."
"How can you be so sure?" Lawson asked. "They come with seven-round magazines too."
"I gave her that gun as a gift when she made chief judge," Richardson said grimly. "Custom eight-round magazine. She's fired three so far."
Lawson calculated angles and distances. "We can't advance without light. She has position advantage."
"Not for long. That emergency lighting runs on battery backup. Twenty minutes maximum."
A fourth shot echoed through the tunnel. More warning than targeting.
"Lawson!" Byrd called. "Tell me something. Did you ever suspect Monica was working for the FBI?"
