Chapter 7 - The Tunnel of Whispers
The old coal rail line was a pitch-black vein cutting straight through the heart of Blackwood Mountain.
Abandoned forty years ago, the iron tracks were rusted and overgrown with moss, and the ceiling of the concrete tunnel dripped constant icy water into the gloom.
Méndez walked in front, holding a small tactical light covered with his thumb to minimize the glare. Ramiro carried Salomé on his shoulders, her tiny legs wrapped securely around his chest, while Clara followed closely behind, holding the heavy black case against her side.
"How long is this tunnel?" Clara asked, her footsteps echoing hollowly against the curved concrete walls.
"Two miles," Méndez answered without stopping. "It comes out right behind the municipal water facility, three blocks from Judge Reed’s estate."
As they walked deeper into the mountain, the temperature dropped dramatically. The air grew thick with the smell of damp earth and old iron.
"Daddy," Salomé whispered down from Ramiro’s shoulders.
"Yeah, corazón?"
"When Mama sewed the phone inside Bunny, she told me a story," the little girl said softly, her chin resting on top of his head.
"What story?"
"She said that sometimes bad people take away the light, but they can never take away what’s written in the dark," Salomé whispered. "She said that even if she had to go away for a long time, the truth would wait for you inside Bunny."
Ramiro reached up, squeezing her tiny hand tightly. "Your mama was the braves girl I ever knew. Next to you."
Suddenly, Méndez stopped dead in his tracks. He held up his hand, signaling absolute silence.
Far behind them, at the entrance of the tunnel they had entered twenty minutes ago, a yellow beam of light cut through the darkness. Then came the sound of running boots splashing through pooled water.
"They found the entry point," Méndez whispered, his face darkening. "Alvarez must have tracked Gomez’s car to the logging trail."
"How many?" Clara asked, her breathing quickening.
"At least four," Méndez said, listening intently to the metallic echoes bouncing off the tunnel walls. "And they aren't state troopers. Trooper boots don't make that heavy tactical sound. It's Sterling’s private contractors."
"They're coming fast," Ramiro noted, setting Salomé down behind a rust-eaten iron coal car that sat off to the side of the track. "We can't outrun them on foot in this dark. Not with Salomé."
Méndez looked at the rusted coal car, then at the steep, narrow ventilation shaft cut into the concrete ceiling directly above them—an old emergency air vent lined with rebar ladder rungs.
"Clara, take the girl up that shaft," Méndez ordered, pointing his beam up at the ladder. "It leads to the surface forest above the mountain pass."
"What about you two?" Clara demanded.
"Ramiro and I are going to make sure they don't follow you up," Méndez said, pulling a spare flare from his tactical vest. "Once you reach the top, run straight down the hill toward the town. Don't stop for anything. Go straight to Judge Reed’s house."
"No," Ramiro said stepping forward. "I'm not leaving my daughter again."
"Listen to me, Ramiro!" Méndez snapped, grabbing him by the front of his jacket. "If they catch us down here with that phone, we all die and Vance wins. You take that case, you go with Clara and your girl. I’m sixty years old. I’ve lived my life. Your life hasn't even started yet!"
Ramiro looked at the veteran warden. In the dim light of the flashlight, he saw not a guard or an officer of the state, but a man who was willing to lay down his life to fix a wrong he had inadvertently helped maintain for five years.
"Thank you, Colonel," Ramiro said, his voice heavy with emotion.
"Don't thank me yet," Méndez grunted, popping the cap off the red flare. "Get up that ladder!"
Ramiro scooped up Salomé, swung the black evidence case over his shoulder, and began climbing the rusted rebar rungs of the ventilation shaft, with Clara right behind him.
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Below them, as they disappeared into the vertical shaft, a bright, blinding crimson light flared to life in the tunnel.
Méndez stood alone in the center of the iron tracks, illuminated by the harsh red smoke of the flare, his service pistol raised high as the footsteps of Sterling’s hitmen thundered toward him out of the dark.
