Read on to the next chapter.

The maintenance tunnel was damp, dark, and narrow, smelling of old iron and rushing rainwater. Overhead, the rhythmic, heavy rumble of a downtown subway train vibrated through the concrete ceiling, sending a fine mist of dust down onto my shoulders.

I clicked on the small tactical flashlight I had grabbed from Mr. Meyers’s office earlier, its sharp white beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating the concrete path ahead. According to the architectural map etched into my memory from my grandfather's journals, this service tunnel ran parallel to the subway line for three blocks before surfacing inside a secure, private brick carriage house owned by the Whitmore estate on Liberty Street.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Muffled shouts echoed from the heavy iron hatch behind me. They were trying to cut through the deadbolt with a plasma torch. A faint, blinding orange glow flickered against the dark walls of the junction fifty yards back, accompanied by the sharp smell of burning metal.

I increased my pace, my heels clicking rapidly against the damp concrete, the leather briefcase gripped tightly in my left hand, the heavy brass revolver held ready in my right.

Two blocks. One block.

The tunnel began to slope upward, leading toward a heavy steel floor grate set into the concrete ceiling above. Faint rays of amber streetlamp light filtered down from the surface, mixing with the cool night air of the city.

I scrambled up the iron ladder attached to the wall, reaching the overhead security latch with my free hand. I shoved my grandfather’s gold master key into the circular lock mechanism on the underside of the grate and twisted hard.

Click.

The heavy iron grate swung upward, creaking against years of rust and disuse.

I hoisted myself out of the opening, tumbling forward onto the polished herringbone brick floor of a dimly lit, private vintage garage. The air smelled of old leather, polished wax, and high-octane gasoline.

I sat up, catching my breath, brushing the dust from my coat. I was inside the Liberty Street carriage house—a historic brick building situated just three blocks away from the central precinct of the Manhattan Federal District Court.

As I stood up and closed the floor grate, locking it securely from the top, the heavy wooden carriage doors at the front of the building swung open smoothly.

A sleek, armored black town car rolled silently into the garage, its headlights cutting through the dim interior.

The rear door opened, and Mr. Meyers stepped out, looking slightly disheveled but entirely intact, flanked by two armed federal marshals in plainclothes.

"Mrs. Carter," Mr. Meyers said, letting out a long, visible sigh of relief as he hurried over to me. "Thank God. The federal marshals secured the perimeter around the penthouse just after you escaped. We’ve intercepted the syndicate’s financial communications."