Chapter 169
"There's an even more hidden bunker underground, or you could call it a small fortress," Bob said with a hint of pride in his voice, "It was built during the Cold War, incredibly sturdy. They say it can withstand direct hits from medium-caliber artillery."
"It's got its own ventilation, water storage, and power generation systems. They're old, but still functional. I mean if—things get messy with a heavy shootout, or if Vitale's people find this place and force their way in, you can immediately hide down there. The entrance is well-hidden, easy to defend, hard to attack."
Barton walked to the edge of the opening, leaned over to take a look, and shone his flashlight down. He nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, "Not bad, Bob. You've thought this through. This place is a lot safer than that old dock."
Hearing Barton's approval, Bob seemed to relax a little.
He straightened up, brushed the dust off his hands, and his face showed that familiar mix of anxiety and eagerness to get back home.
"Alright, Barton, I've brought you to the place, and I've prepared everything I could," Bob said, rubbing his hands together, his tone urgent, "I've got to head home now. I need to move my family as soon as possible, get them to a completely safe spot."
"When Vitale loses it, there's nothing he won't do. I know him—or rather, I know people like him."
Bob looked at Barton, a faint plea and emphasis in his eyes, "I know you promised to protect them, and I trust you, but Barton, I'm still worried. I have to handle this myself, see with my own eyes that they're safely out of Arcturus. You understand, right?"
Barton didn't reply right away.
He slowly pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and put it in his mouth, lighting it with a windproof lighter.
The orange glow illuminated his kind yet unreadable face.
Barton took a deep drag, letting the smoke swirl in his lungs before exhaling slowly.
"Of course, Bob," Barton said through the haze of smoke, his tone calm, "Family always comes first. I get it."
He switched the cigarette to his left hand, reached into his faded work jacket with his free right hand, and pulled something out.
It was a compact handgun, well-maintained, with a dull metallic sheen.
"But before you go," Barton said, handing the gun to Bob with a smile that could almost pass as friendly, "I want to give you a little gift. It might come in handy for what you're about to do."
Bob stared at the gun in front of him, caught off guard for a moment.
It was a common model, easy to conceal, with decent firepower.
He looked up at Barton, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but quickly reached out to take the gun. The heavy, cold metal felt reassuring in his hand.
"Alright, Barton," Bob said, expertly checking the gun to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on before tucking it into his waistband, covering it with his suit jacket, "Thanks. I'm heading out now. Keep in touch."
Barton nodded, saying nothing more.
Bob took one last look at the temporary shelter, then glanced at Isabella, who was pale and standing in the corner under Eva's watch.
She had recovered a bit from the initial shock of the cliff incident, but her eyes were still empty.
Then, as if making up his mind, Bob turned and walked out of the room quickly, his footsteps fading down the passage toward the exit.
Isabella was soon taken by Eva to a smaller room to be locked up.
The room had a tiny window with sturdy iron bars, offering a view of a small patch of lead-gray sky and the distant, blurry sight of rolling waves.
The ropes on Isabella's hands were untied, though deep marks remained on her wrists. At least her hands were free now.
She could move around a little within the small space.
But she was still a prisoner.
The iron door was locked from the outside, and the bars on the window were welded tight—impossible to budge with bare hands.
And as Bob had said, the building was perched on a cliff, with the roaring sea and jagged rocks below. Even if she somehow escaped the room, there was nowhere to go unless she wanted to jump to her death.
After setting up the lookout and shift schedules, and confirming the entrance to the underground bunker and emergency plans, Barton returned to a relatively comfortable room deeper in the building.
There was an old sofa, a table, and a desk lamp with decent light.
He sat down on the sofa, exhausted, continuing to smoke while staring at a rough map of the coastline spread out on the table. His eyes were deep, lost in thought, planning something unknown.
Eva knocked lightly on the door before walking in.
Her face was as expressionless as ever, but her deep green eyes held a clear trace of doubt and unease.
"Boss," Eva said, standing by the table, her voice low, "I don't get it."
Barton looked up from the map, "Don't get what?"
"This Bob guy..." Eva frowned, "Why do you trust him so much? You even gave him a gun. Aren't you worried he'll turn around and betray us the moment he leaves? Or, to save himself, tell Vitale where we are?"
To her, Bob was selfish and cowardly, the type who'd do anything to survive.
Barton not only let him go but also armed him. It was like letting a tiger loose—a huge risk.
Hearing Eva's question, Barton was taken aback for a moment, then let out a low chuckle, as if he'd heard something incredibly amusing.
The laughter started quiet, then grew louder, echoing in the small room, carrying a mix of cynicism and understanding.
"Betray us?" Barton laughed for a while before pointing at Eva with the hand holding his cigarette, shaking his head, "No, no, Eva, you've got it wrong."
He stopped laughing, his expression turning serious, "Bob, he's on our side."
Seeing the confusion deepen in Eva's eyes, Barton explained patiently, "The thing he hates most is his own background—the Harrison family, a mafia clan that's been rooted in Arcturus for decades, built on violence, gambling, and loan-sharking."
"He's hated that shady, brutal life since he was a kid. He's always wanted a so-called normal, decent life. But he can't escape it. His last name is Harrison. That's his curse."
"So, when he wanted revenge on Amboni, he didn't use his family's power."
"He could have, easily, but instead, he came to us—Thorn of Justice, an anti-mafia group."
A mocking smirk tugged at Barton's lips, "This isn't just hiring someone to hurt people. It's a statement, a way of betraying and cutting ties with the dirty world he comes from."
"He wants to use us to take down another mafia group. It makes him feel more righteous, like it fits with that silly fantasy of his to clean up his image."
"So," Barton concluded, his tone firm, "he won't betray us. Betraying us would mean betraying the 'nobler' path he chose to fight against the mafia. Plus, right now, he's more scared of Vitale than we are."
"He needs us as a shield, as a target to draw fire. Why would he destroy that target and let Vitale's anger turn straight to him and his family?"