Chapter 8: The Abandoned Depot
The rusted iron doors of the railway depot groaned in protest as Clara slid them open just enough for her and Leo to squeeze inside. The interior smelled of old grease, damp iron, and accumulated dust. Cobwebs hung from the exposed rafters like tattered lace, and the moonlight cutting through the broken skylights cast long, skeletal bars across the concrete floor.
Clara gently lifted Leo onto a wooden packing crate, pulling a heavy wool tarp from a nearby shelf to wrap around his shivering shoulders. “Sit tight right here, Leo. I’m going to check the control panel and get us moving,” she whispered, offering him a reassuring smile that she didn’t entirely feel.
She turned her attention to the old freight cart resting on the spur line. Its mechanical systems looked primitive compared to the high-tech automation of the Vance estate, but beneath the rusted exterior lay a standard industrial terminal housing a universal serial port. Clara pulled the silver flash drive from her pocket, wiping a layer of grime from its metallic casing.
As she inserted the drive into the depot’s control box, the mechanical console flickered to life. A amber light blinked steadily on the grease-stained metal interface, followed by a low mechanical hum as the cart’s diesel-electric hybrid motor engaged.
Suddenly, the depot doors were kicked inward with a resounding crash.
Two men in tactical black gear stepped through the threshold, their flashlights cutting erratic beams across the dusty interior. They wore unmarked uniforms, their faces half-hidden behind reinforced ballistic masks.
“Check the perimeter and clear the back rooms,” one of them barked in a harsh, clipped tone. “Nan wants the drive and the kid before sunrise. No loose ends.”
Clara froze, her hand still resting on the control panel. She was trapped in the open, illuminated by the amber glow of the console. She glanced back at the packing crate where Leo sat hidden behind a stack of spare tires, his wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto her in pure panic.
She needed to buy time. Slowly, deliberately, Clara stepped away from the control box, letting her blue and white maid uniform catch the harsh beam of the approaching flashlight as she walked directly into the open lane of the depot.
“You’re looking for the wrong person,” Clara called out, her voice ringing clear and steady through the cavernous space.
The two operatives spun around instantly, their weapon barrels snapping toward her chest.
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“Hands where we can see them!” the lead operative shouted, stepping forward with his rifle raised. “Where is the boy?”
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