Chapter 10
The blinding glare of industrial floodlights cut through the darkness of the aqueduct tunnel, forcing Marcus and Arthur to raise their hands to shield their eyes. The sound of heavy machinery idling grew deafening, rattling the old brick walls and sending dust cascading down from the ceiling.
Marcus drew himself up defensively, stepping in front of Arthur. “Corporate maintenance crews,” he muttered, his voice tense. “They must have anticipated our route using the old municipal utility blueprints.”
Ten yards ahead, blocking the entire width of the brick tunnel, stood a heavy pneumatic barricade manned by four private contractors clad in high-visibility vests and tactical riot gear. Behind them, a massive hydraulic drilling rig hissed steam into the damp air, effectively sealing off the path toward City Hall.
“Turn around, old man! There’s no way through!” shouted the lead contractor over the din of the engine, pointing a heavy-duty stun baton directly at Marcus.
Marcus clenched his fists, glancing back down the dark corridor behind them. They were trapped between a receding patrol and an insurmountable blockade.
“Mr. Vance, we need to fall back,” Marcus urged, grabbing Arthur’s arm.
Arthur did not move an inch. He stood tall, his weathered face illuminated by the harsh white floodlights, while the small lapel pin on his leather jacket pulsed with an increasingly intense, rhythmic green light.
“There is no falling back, Marcus,” Arthur said calmly, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the machinery. “A man who spends his whole life retreating never reaches his destination.”
Arthur stepped past Marcus, walking steadily toward the armed blockade. The lead contractor scoffed, stepping forward and raising his baton. “I said stop right there, or you’re going to get hurt!”
Before the guard could lower the weapon, Arthur reached down and pressed his hand firmly against a rusted iron valve protruding from the brick wall beside the trench. The valve bore an old municipal insignia—the exact emblem matching the design of his lapel pin.
“You might own the hotel upstairs, young man,” Arthur said, staring coldly at the lead contractor. “But you do not own the water table of this city.”
With a sudden, powerful twist of his weathered hands, Arthur turned the valve three full rotations.
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A deafening groan echoed through the subterranean chamber as ancient, high-pressure municipal valves released millions of gallons of water from the upper city reservoirs. Instantly, a massive torrent of rushing water surged from drainage channels beneath the floorboards, sweeping violently across the concrete and slamming into the base of the corporate barricade with incredible force.
The heavy pneumatic barricade shrieked as its metal supports buckled under the deluge, sending the startled contractors scrambling backward into the mud to save themselves from the rushing flood.
