Chapter 9 - The Service Tunnel
The narrow brick-lined service corridor was pitch black, lit only by the pale amber glow of emergency exit signs flickering overhead. The air smelled of damp stone, old dust, and copper piping. Julian carried Clara in his arms, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs against his chest as he navigated the uneven flooring with desperate speed. Behind them, the muffled shouts of the security guards echoed off the brick walls, bouncing through the labyrinthine passages like phantom whispers.
"Can you... can you put me down, Mr. Sterling?" Clara whispered, her fingers clutching the lapel of his ruined suit jacket. Her voice was terrifyingly weak. "I can... I can walk a little."
"No. We keep moving," Julian panted, his muscles burning with fatigue, but his adrenaline kept his legs driving forward. He knew every inch of this estate on paper, but he had never walked these hidden tunnels during a crisis. "The carriage house is at the end of this corridor. There’s an old vintage Packard parked inside with a manual fuel line. Marcus’s jammers won't affect a carburetor."
They rounded a sharp corner, the cool night air hitting their faces like a physical wake-up call. Ahead of them, a heavy iron-bolted wooden door marked the exit to the carriage house courtyard. Faint moonlight filtered through the high, dirty windows near the ceiling, casting long, skeletal shadows across rows of ancient gardening tools and tarps.
Julian kicked the wooden door open with his heel, spilling out into the damp night air of the carriage house. The sprawling structure was quiet, save for the hum of dust motes dancing in the moonlight. In the center sat the vintage black Packard, its polished chrome fenders gleaming faintly in the dark.
Julian carefully set Clara down against the padded leather seat of a nearby wooden workbench, ensuring she was propped up safely before rushing toward the vintage car. He popped the heavy metal hood, grabbing a wrench from the nearby tool rack to prime the manual fuel pump.
Clank. Squeak.
The mechanical parts protested against years of disuse, but with a sharp pull, the engine sputtered to life, coughing a small cloud of grey exhaust into the enclosed space.
"Julian!"
The voice echoed sharply from the open doorway behind them.
Julian whipped around. Marcus Vance stood in the entrance of the carriage house, flanked by the two armed security guards. Marcus wasn't holding a weapon this time; instead, he held a sleek, modern tablet device, tapping the screen with a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
"You really thought you could drive out of here?" Marcus called out, his voice echoing off the concrete floor. "The estate gates are remote-locked, Julian. And the local police dispatch? I rerouted their radios ten minutes ago. No one is coming for you."
Julian stepped away from the Packard, placing himself squarely between Marcus and Clara. His eyes narrowed with cold, unyielding fury as he reached slowly behind his back, his fingers closing around the cold steel handle of a heavy tire iron resting on the workbench.
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"You made one fatal mistake, Marcus," Julian said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "You forgot that my father didn't just build a corporation. He built a fortress with secrets you were never cleared to access."
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