Chapter 166 The Hartwell Family’s Secret Base
Chapter 166 The Hartwell Family’s Secret Base
The blue glow from the cold flare barely lasted three minutes before it started to dim. Dominic twisted open a second one from his tactical vest.
Penelope stopped staring blankly at the blood-red phoenix on the stone wall. She crouched down, her fingers tracing the ground. Beneath the rubble lay smooth concrete.
Poured by hand.
"This isn't a natural cave." She stood, her gaze following the concrete's extension. At the edge of the faint blue light, a rusted iron door loomed in the shadows.
Dominic was already ahead. His mangled left hand was wrapped in strips of cloth wound tight enough to cut off circulation. His right gripped a black pistol scavenged from a dead mercenary—three rounds left in the magazine.
His gait had grown stiffer in the past ten minutes, but his spine remained ramrod straight.
Penelope said nothing. She followed.
The iron door wasn't locked. The hinges were so corroded that one kick from Dominic sent it flying open. Beyond it stretched a narrow corridor, industrial light fixtures still bolted to the walls—long dead.
At the end of the corridor sat a room roughly four hundred square feet.
Dust thick enough to swallow their ankles. The air reeked of mildewed paper left to rot. Three metal filing cabinets lined the wall alongside a military-issue folding table. On the table: a completely trashed vintage radio.
Most conspicuous was the waist-high dark green safe in the corner, a handwritten label affixed to its door—the ink faded to near illegibility.
Penelope approached and crouched to make it out.
"Memorandum."
She recognized the handwriting. Jonathan. She'd signed countless documents he'd handed her since childhood.
The safe had a mechanical combination lock—three sets of numbers. Penelope stared at the dial for two seconds, then her fingers moved without hesitation. 122807.
Her birthday.
A soft click. The door popped open.
No cash inside. No gold bars. Just a palm-sized black hardcover notebook and a stack of yellowed architectural blueprints.
Penelope picked up the notebook and opened to the first page. The date: twenty-two years ago.
Dominic leaned against the doorframe, gun trained on the corridor behind them. His peripheral vision flicked toward her once. He said nothing.
Penelope turned page after page, faster and faster, what little color remained in her face draining away at visible speed.
The diary entries were brutally concise—ledger-like records that, pieced together, formed a complete picture chilling enough to freeze the marrow in her bones.
Twenty-two years ago, Jonathan had approached Preston voluntarily. Under the pretense of "joint development of X-3 military enhancement serum," he'd provided a list of test subjects from the orphanage.
Penelope's name appeared on page three. In the notation column: "Optimal genetic compatibility. Reserve for critical phase."
He'd put her on the human experimentation list himself.
Penelope's fingers paused mid-turn. Then continued.
Fifteen years ago, Jonathan discovered Preston had embezzled core data from Subject 07. The two broke completely. But Jonathan didn't retaliate against Preston—he chose a more insidious path. He began deliberately cultivating Penelope's influence in the business world, forging her into a razor-sharp blade.
The diary's exact words:
"Penelope doesn't need to know the truth. She only needs to hate Preston enough. Hatred will drive her to strike first, and Preston's rage will make him destroy the blade himself. Then, under the guise of grief over a lost daughter, I'll rally forces from all sides to legally absorb Preston's entire empire. Three birds, one stone."
Three birds, one stone.
Eliminate Preston. Absorb his assets. Conveniently dispose of Penelope.
Penelope closed the diary.
She didn't cry. Didn't curse.
Dominic turned to look at her. Barely restrained killing intent roiled in his bloodshot eyes. His voice came out sandpaper-rough:
"Jonathan set the combination to your birthday. Put the safe somewhere you'd definitely find it. The blueprints map out the entire cave structure." He paused. "He knew you'd come."
Penelope raised her head. Her eyes were cold enough to look inhuman.
"He didn't just know I'd come."
She flipped to the diary's last page and handed it to Dominic.
That page was completely different from the neat black pen strokes before it—a single line scrawled in red marker, the strokes pressed so hard they'd torn through the paper's fibers:
"The moment prey enters the cave, ground infrared sensors will automatically release RT-7 neurological excitant gas. Enclosed space. No antidote. No one stays conscious long enough to walk out."
Dominic finished reading. Slowly lifted his head.
The instant their eyes met, an extremely faint mechanical startup sound echoed from deep within the cave. Immediately after, nearly transparent white mist began seeping from vents in all four corners of the ceiling.
Penelope's pupils contracted sharply.
The white mist had no scent whatsoever, but the instant it touched skin, it brought abnormal, searing heat.
She lunged toward the iron door, hand clamped over her nose and mouth, but barely made it two steps before a dull metallic impact sounded behind her. Hidden locks on both sides of the door snapped into place. Three alloy bolts sealed the exit completely.
Jonathan's death trap. Easy to enter. Impossible to leave.
"Don't breathe." Dominic's ragged voice came from behind her. A scorching palm had already locked onto her shoulder.
Penelope turned.
The cold flare had dimmed to barely more than a faint halo, but she still saw Dominic's eyes clearly—the bloodshot veins spreading at visible speed through his irises, crimson devouring the black bit by bit.
The perfect antibodies in his system could handle ordinary toxins, but RT-7 was a neurological excitant. It didn't attack the bloodstream—it targeted the dopamine secretion centers in the cerebral cortex.
The antibodies couldn't suppress it.
Dominic's hand trembled as it left her shoulder. Not from weakness—from the effort of restraint. He backed up a step, his spine slamming hard against a filing cabinet. The metal let out an ear-splitting hollow clang.
"Get away from me." He forced the words through clenched teeth, his voice terrifyingly raw.
Penelope didn't move. Not because she didn't want to—her legs had gone soft, knees like someone had yanked the bones clean out. That searing heat spread from her lower abdomen through every limb, consciousness growing thick and blurred.
She forced herself to think about the blueprint's structure. The ventilation ducts' positions. Anything to keep her brain functioning.
But her vision stuck to Dominic against her will.
He leaned against the filing cabinet, gasping for air. Sweat slid down his jawline. That old scar above his collarbone rose and fell in the dim light. He ground his molars, temporal muscles locked tight. His mangled left hand had wrung water from the cloth strips.
He was using pain to fight the drug's effects.
Watching him, Penelope suddenly felt the absurdity of it all.
He'd carried poison for her for twenty years. Taken countless bullets meant for her. Even now he was mutilating himself to avoid hurting her—and the person who'd laid this trap was her adoptive father.
"Dominic." She spoke, her throat dry as kindling.