Chapter 13 - Descent into the Crypt
-13-
The sea-level drainage grate was rusted, encrusted with salt and barnacles, but Vincent’s tactical blade made short work of the iron bolts holding it in place. With a soft groan, the heavy grate swung inward, revealing a dark, damp concrete tunnel that smelled of stagnant water and ozone.
We waded through ankle-deep water into the bowels of the Marseille warehouse.
The ambient noise of the crashing waves faded, replaced by the low, rhythmic hum of high-powered server racks echoing from somewhere directly above us. We climbed a rusted iron ladder that led to a secondary maintenance hatch set flush into the concrete floor of the warehouse interior.
Vincent pressed his ear against the metal, listening intently. Footsteps—heavy and rhythmic—paced back and forth just outside the hatch.
He gave me a sharp nod, pushed the hatch upward with explosive force, and vaulted into the room, his weapon raised.
Clack!
A startled mercenary spun around, reaching for his rifle, but before his fingers could wrap around the grip, Vincent’s suppressive shot hit him squarely in the chest, dropping him silently to the concrete floor.
We were inside the inner sanctum of Project Janus.
The room was vast, cold, and lit only by the blinking blue and red LED lights of dozens of high-capacity server racks stretching into the gloom. In the center of the room stood a raised glass observation platform overlooking a massive central mainframe terminal.
And standing at the terminal, illuminated by the glowing screens, was an elderly man with silver hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, wearing an expensive silk suit that looked entirely out of place in an industrial warehouse.
Jean-Luc Moreau.
He didn't turn around immediately. He continued typing into the keyboard, his fingers clicking rhythmically against the keys.
“You’re late, Julian,” Moreau spoke in a raspy, heavily accented voice, assuming we were his American operatives returning from Columbus. “The decryption protocol is already at ninety percent. Once we harvest the M-17 genetic sequence from the secondary ledger, the entire North American real estate portfolio reverts back to our syndicate control.”
“Julian isn't coming, Moreau,” Vincent said, his voice ringing out cold and sharp across the cavernous server room.
Moreau froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Slowly, agonizingly, the old man turned around in his chair. His pale, sharp eyes widened in genuine shock as he looked past Vincent and locked onto me—seeing the exact same dark curls, the exact same defiant jawline, and the silver locket resting proudly against my chest.
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“Margaret...?” Moreau whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at me. “No... she’s dead. In the fire... twenty-five years ago.”
“Margaret was my mother,” I answered, stepping out of the shadows, my hand resting firmly on the grip of my weapon. “And she taught me how to hunt ghosts, Monsieur Moreau.”
