Chapter 67 - The Subterranean Slipstream
The shockwave threw us violently forward onto the rusted iron tracks of the subterranean rail tunnel. The darkness was absolute for three terrifying seconds before Marcus’s shoulder-mounted tactical light flared to life, illuminating the damp, cavernous expanse stretching miles into the distance.
I immediately checked Noah. He stirred in the sling, letting out a soft sigh, but his skin was cool, his pulse steady and rhythmic. The amber enzyme had neutralized the genetic collapse entirely. He was safe. For the first time since the day he was born, my baby was truly out of immediate medical danger.
"Are you hit?" Marcus asked, his breathing ragged as he shone the light across my blood-soaked sleeves and vest.
"It's not mine," I replied, wiping the grime from my eyes. "Most of it isn't, anyway. Can we get this maintenance cart moving?"
Ten yards down the track sat an electric industrial rail trolley used for transporting bio-hazard containers between the research facility and the river port. Marcus bypassed the ignition panel with his combat knife, stripping the wires and sparking them together.
The electric motor hummed to life with a low, vibrating whine.
We climbed aboard, and Marcus slammed the throttle forward. The trolley surged into the darkness, wind whipping through our hair as we raced through the abandoned tunnel beneath the black waters of the river above.
Behind us, distant subterranean thuds signaled the secondary collapses of the Vance underground research complex. The fire had likely breached the liquid oxygen storage, incinerating every record, every illegal clone sequence, and every genetic blueprint Eleanor had amassed over four decades.
I pulled out the encrypted Vance master drive I had snatched from the central console before the chaos erupted. Plugging it into my tactical tablet, the screen illuminated with terabytes of decrypted corporate files.
"We did it," Marcus muttered, keeping his weapon trained down the long, dark tunnel. "The Vance estate is ashes. Julian and the old woman are buried under five hundred tons of rock. The dynasty is dead."
I scrolled through the files, my eyes scanning the high-level financial ledgers, shipping manifests, and executive communications.
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Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat.
"Marcus," I whispered, my blood turning to ice. "The dynasty wasn't Eleanor's."
