Chapter 10 - GATE SEVEN
Gate Seven had been closed for six years.
It stood along the western boundary beyond Building Twelve, where the perimeter road curved toward the abandoned training grounds.
No traffic camera covered the final half mile.
No guard post remained active.
It was the ideal place for a gate that officially did not open.
Mike studied the base map on Torres’s tablet.
“They asked for the brass key.”
“They may not know what it opens,” Torres said.
“They know Emily had it.”
“Then they know more about the murder scene than the fake investigators recovered.”
Wade looked at the time.
“Twenty-seven minutes.”
Mike slipped the key into his vest.
“I’m going.”
“You heard the instruction,” Wade said. “Come alone.”
“That is why they expect me to obey.”
Torres disconnected a palm-sized communications module from her tablet.
“The base network is compromised. This uses direct short-range transmission. No relay.”
She handed one piece to Mike and kept the other.
“Range?”
“Two miles if the terrain stays open.”
“No voice unless necessary,” Mike said.
Wade folded the paper detention order and placed it in his pocket.
“I’m coming.”
Mike looked at him.
“They may be using your identity. Your presence could trigger them.”
“My absence may do the same.”
Torres studied both men.
“We need one person outside their expected pattern.”
Mike understood.
“Torres approaches from the drainage channel.”
Wade nodded.
“I remain near the perimeter control box.”
“And I walk to the gate.”
No one called it a good plan.
It was only the least predictable one available.
They left Building Twelve through a rear maintenance exit.
The rain had softened to mist.
Mike crossed the open ground alone, Mark’s laptop strapped beneath his tactical vest. The family photograph pressed against his chest. Emily’s brass key felt heavier than metal should.
Gate Seven rose ahead of him.
Two steel barriers.
A dark guard booth.
Chain-link fencing topped with wire.
The red restricted-access light above the control box glowed steadily.
Mike stopped thirty feet away.
His earpiece remained silent.
“Sheriff,” he called.
No answer.
He moved closer.
Inside the booth, a county sheriff’s hat rested on the counter.
Bill’s hat.
Mike entered.
A small monitor activated.
Bill appeared live this time.
He sat in the rear of a moving vehicle, hands bound. The camera angle showed only part of the window and the dark road passing outside.
“Mike,” Bill said.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’ll live.”
“Who has you?”
Bill looked toward someone beyond the camera.
“I don’t know their names.”
“Did you give Sarah’s evidence to Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she hide it?”
Bill’s eyes filled.
“In her music box.”
Mike remembered the wooden music box in Emily’s bedroom. A ballerina turned when the lid opened. Sarah had given it to her on her sixth birthday.
The fake investigators had taken three evidence bags.
One bag unlisted.
“They have it,” Mike said.
Bill shook his head.
“No. Emily changed the hiding place after Sarah warned her.”
“Where?”
Bill looked down.
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
A voice spoke from inside Bill’s vehicle.
“Enough.”
The screen switched to the distorted warehouse feed.
Then to a base-access control panel.
INSERT PHYSICAL KEY.
Mike took out the brass key.
Torres’s voice came faintly through his earpiece.
“Wait.”
Mike did not move.
She whispered, “The keyhole is not part of the gate control. It was installed later.”
“For what?”
“I’m tracing the housing.”
Wade’s voice entered.
“Mike, the perimeter sensors just registered movement outside the fence.”
“How many?”
“No clear count.”
Mike looked through the rain.
Beyond Gate Seven, three dark vehicles waited without lights on the county road.
The monitor displayed a message.
OPEN THE GATE.
Mike inserted the brass key halfway.
The control panel illuminated.
Torres inhaled sharply in his ear.
“Don’t turn it.”
“What did you find?”
“That key doesn’t open Gate Seven.”
“Then what does it open?”
“It authorizes a buried communications vault directly beneath you.”
Mike looked down at the concrete floor.
A vibration traveled through his boots.
Heavy locks disengaged underground.
The brass key had already triggered something before he turned it.
A rectangular seam appeared in the floor of the guard booth.
The hidden hatch began to rise.
Wade’s voice sharpened.
“Mike, get out of there.”
Mike stepped backward.
A metal platform emerged from darkness.
On it sat Sheriff Bill Kane.
His wrists were free.
No bruises marked his face.
The injury footage had been staged.
May you like
Bill stood slowly.
In his hand was Colonel Wade’s damaged service ring.
