Chapter 8
Clara crept up the rotting wooden stairs of the loading dock, keeping low against the corrugated iron wall. A set of double doors hung half-off their hinges, creating a narrow gap through which she could see into the cavernous interior of the mill.
Inside, the space was illuminated by a single, flickering halogen work light propped up on a rusted steel drum. Arthur Vance stood near the center of the vast concrete floor. His heavy dark jacket was soaked through, and blood trickled from a shallow cut above his right eyebrow. Standing opposite him was a man in an immaculate charcoal-gray trench coat, looking entirely out of place in the ruined mill. He held a small, suppressed pistol pointed casually toward the floor, flanked by two larger men dressed in tactical black utility gear.
"You should have stayed in the mountains, Arthur," the man in the trench coat said, his voice carrying clearly across the empty space. "The project was classified fifty years ago. Whatever Dr. Julian left behind died with him."
"My son didn't die in that lab fire, Richard, and you know it," Arthur spat back, his voice ringing with a fierce, defiant pride. "He sent the dog out before your clean-up crew blew the tunnels. He knew what you were building under the permafrost, and he made sure the world would eventually find out."
"And yet, the dog ended up at a random grooming salon in a forgotten town," Richard replied smoothly, stepping closer to the old man. "A clever hiding spot, I'll grant you. But ultimately useless. Where is the drive, Arthur? Where is the titanium capsule?"
Clara’s hand instinctively went to her interior pocket, her fingers brushing against the cold metal cylinder. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She needed a distraction, something to pull the armed men away from Arthur long enough to intervene.
Down on the floor, the tension reached a breaking point. One of the tactical guards stepped forward, raising a hand to grab Arthur by the collar. The old man didn't flinch, raising his fists in a pathetic, heroic display of resistance that was doomed to fail against trained operatives.
Before Richard could give the order to strike, a sharp, resonant sound echoed from the dark loading dock behind Clara.
Clatter.
May you like
Clara froze. She hadn't knocked anything over. She looked down in sheer disbelief. The Golden Retriever, having slipped out of the sedan and followed her scent through the rain, stood at the top of the loading dock stairs. Its tail wagged slowly, its dark eyes fixed not on the armed men, but squarely on Arthur Vance.
"Get him!" Richard shouted, whipping his pistol up toward the doorway.
