Chapter 164

Chapter 164
[Claire's POV]

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Five seconds. Ten. The darkness below the trapdoor seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.

"We can't wait any longer," I said. My voice came out sharper than I intended, tight with tension.

Samantha's head whipped toward me, brow furrowed. "Claire, we should wait for Marcus—"

"He already heard us." I cut her off, pointing at the black square of the opening. My breathing came fast and shallow. "That sound wasn't random. He knows we're here."

Samantha's jaw tightened. She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. "Which is exactly why this is more dangerous. We don't know what's down there. If it really is James—"

"He's escaped multiple times," I interrupted again. This time my voice carried a desperate edge I couldn't suppress. "He's left traces at every crime scene but never got caught. I can't let him slip away again, Samantha." My eyes locked on hers, sharp and determined. "This might be our last chance."

We stared at each other. In the beam of my flashlight, I could see her reading the certainty in my face—the fierce, hungry need that had replaced the empty void I used to carry.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose. A sound of resignation. She knew she couldn't stop me.

I didn't wait for her response. My hand went to my waist pack, pulling out the small Maglite I'd bought last week—no more useless luxury purchases, just practical tools. I clicked it on. The powerful beam cut through the darkness, illuminating steep wooden stairs descending into earth and shadow.

I took a deep breath, gripped the flashlight tight, and started down.

The old wood groaned under my feet. Each step sent a creak echoing down the shaft, making my heart hammer faster. But I didn't stop. Behind me, I heard Samantha curse under her breath. Then the metallic slide of her Glock 19 clearing its holster, the click of her tactical flashlight switching on.

"Stay in my line of sight," she ordered, voice low and professional. "If you see my hand signal, you freeze. Understood?"

I nodded without looking back. Without slowing down.

The stairwell closed in around us. The walls were crude—dirt and brick mixed together in rough patches, held up by rotting timber supports. The air grew colder with each step, heavy with moisture. The smell hit me: mold, decay, something old and stale and fundamentally wrong.

Our flashlight beams crossed and separated in the narrow space, catching cracks in the masonry and the skeletal framework of ancient wood.

Twenty seconds down, I realized the passage wasn't straight. The stairs spiraled. We'd descended maybe ten feet and turned a full rotation, the structure corkscrewing deeper into the earth. I paused, angling my light downward into the continuing blackness.

"This is really a goddamn pit," I whispered. My voice produced a faint echo in the enclosed space, making me instinctively lower it further.

Samantha stopped behind me. I felt her professional assessment mode kick in. "How the hell was this built?" She swept her flashlight across the walls, studying the brickwork and aging materials. "Looking at these materials and craftsmanship—this is at least seventy, eighty years old. Probably Prohibition era. Private liquor cellar or smuggling tunnel."

I didn't answer. My mind flashed to James as a child—that gentle boy who fed stray cats. What had he done in darkness like this? The thought made my chest tight.

The stairs kept going. And going. Our footsteps and breathing became the only sounds, echoing back at us from walls we couldn't see. Time stretched. Each second felt like a minute.

Three more rotations. Then Samantha's light finally caught something solid below. "There," she said.

We'd reached the bottom.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My palm was slick with sweat around the flashlight grip. But when my beam swung forward, my breath caught again.

A door. Massive and old. Maybe eight feet tall, nearly six feet wide, constructed from heavy oak planks. The surface bore carvings—classical patterns worn smooth by time, barely visible under decades of grime. Stone bricks framed it. And beneath the door's bottom edge, a thin line of warm yellow light bled into the darkness.

I stared. My pulse kicked up again. Behind that door—James? A victim? Both?

My hand trembled slightly. The flashlight beam danced across the carved wood, betraying my inner conflict. This was it. Whatever came next would change everything.

"What do we do?" Samantha's voice was quiet, controlled.

I hesitated. Five seconds. Ten. Then I stepped forward, raised my right hand, and knocked three times on the heavy wood.

The sound boomed through the underground space. Louder than I'd expected. Each knock echoed and re-echoed, the sound waves bouncing down unseen passages.

We held our breath. Waiting for footsteps, voices, movement—anything.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

Nothing.

The light beneath the door remained steady. No shadows crossed it. No sound came from the other side. It was as if the space beyond was empty—or as if whoever was there had chosen absolute silence.

Samantha frowned. "No response." She kept her voice barely audible, eyes locked on the door. "That's not right. Knocking like that might have made him suspicious. If he's really in there, he knows we're out here now. Could be preparing to run. Or…" She didn't finish, but I understood. Or preparing to attack.

Her tactical mind was already moving. "We should push through immediately. Don't give him time to react."

I nodded. My mouth felt dry. Adrenaline flooded my system.

We repositioned. Samantha holstered her flashlight and raised her Glock in a two-handed grip, muzzle aimed at the door's lock. Her other hand closed around the iron handle—an old lever-style mechanism, crusted with age.

She glanced back at me one final time. Her eyes were hard, professional, but I caught the concern underneath. "You ready for this?"

I forced myself to breathe slowly. To push down the fear and the excitement and the terrible, desperate hope that we'd find answers behind this door. That we'd find James. That this nightmare would end.

"Ready," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Samantha's fingers tightened on the handle.