"Keep walking," Thomas ordered quietly. "The men who killed him are watching us right now. Sterling is here. He knows you were coming, and you have exactly ten minutes before he locks down the entire cemetery and has you eliminated."
My boots scuffed against the polished granite floor of the mausoleum's outer corridor. I forced myself to match Thomas's steady, purposeful stride, even though my mind was spinning violently.
"Sterling?" I breathed, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. "Marcus Sterling?"
"He's a four-star general now, Arthur," Thomas murmured, nodding politely to a pair of passing military police. "He's positioned to become the next Secretary of Defense. And he's the one giving Richard's eulogy in fifteen minutes."
Thirty years ago, Marcus Sterling had been the intelligence officer attached to my unit. He was the one who provided the faulty coordinates that led my men into an ambush. He was the one who handled the classified weapon schematics that went missing.
When the military tribunal demanded a culprit, Sterling had produced doctored evidence pinning the disaster entirely on my leadership. He walked away a hero. I walked away a ghost.
"Why would Sterling kill Richard?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the echoing footsteps.
"Because Richard finally found the proof," Thomas replied grimly. "Three days ago, Richard called me on a secure line. He said he had compiled absolute evidence that Sterling sold those weapons thirty years ago, and framed you to cover his tracks."
My chest tightened. The air in the corridor suddenly felt painfully thin.
I had spent decades believing Richard had abandoned me. I thought he had valued his own rank over my life. But he had spent the last thirty years quietly hunting the man who ruined me.
"Where is the proof?" I demanded.
"I don't know," Thomas said, his voice laced with frustration. "Richard said he hid it somewhere safe. He said he was going to mail you a key. Then, twelve hours later, he was found dead in his home. The official report said cardiac arrest. My private medical contact said it was a highly concentrated potassium injection. Untraceable."
I reached into my pocket, my fingers tracing the jagged edge of the rusted iron key.
"He mailed me the key," I confirmed. "And a note. It said they buried the truth in his coffin, and that I needed to get it before it goes into the ground."
Thomas’s eyes widened slightly. He stopped walking and pulled me into an empty side alcove, shadowed by a massive marble pillar.
"His casket is in the central holding chamber at the end of this hall," Thomas whispered urgently. "Sterling ordered an expedited, closed-casket service. He claimed it was Richard's final wish, but Sterling’s private security contractors have been guarding that room all morning. They only stepped away ten minutes ago to secure the main plaza for the politicians."
"He knows I'm coming," I said, piecing it together. "Sterling knows Richard mailed me something."
"He suspects it," Thomas corrected. "Sterling’s men have been monitoring the gates, looking for you. Me pulling you through security just bought you a window, but it won't last long. I have to go to the VIP stands right now. If I'm not seen sitting in the front row, Sterling will know I'm helping you, and he’ll have us both arrested."
"Go," I told him, squaring my tired shoulders. "I can handle this."
Thomas hesitated. "Arthur, you're not a young man anymore. Sterling's people aren't regular soldiers. They're mercenaries. If they catch you in that holding room, they will kill you and claim you were an armed intruder."
"Let them try," I said softly.
Thomas gave me a tight, respectful nod. He turned and walked back toward the sunlight, leaving me alone in the cold, echoing shadows of the mausoleum.
I took a deep breath, letting my military training overwrite the aching pain in my joints. I wasn't just a tired old clockmaker anymore. I was Colonel Arthur Vance, and I was on enemy ground.
I slipped out of the alcove and moved silently down the corridor.
The architecture of Fortress Hill was old and complex. I knew the layout intimately, having supervised security details here in my prime. I avoided the main double doors of the holding chamber, knowing they would be covered by security cameras.
Instead, I navigated to the maintenance hallway running parallel to the chamber. I found the heavy steel door reserved for the cemetery groundskeepers.
It was locked, but it used a standard tumblers-and-pin mechanism. I pulled a small tension wrench and a lock pick from the lining of my faded coat—tools I used daily for antique clocks.
My arthritic fingers protested, but muscle memory took over. Within twenty seconds, the lock clicked.
I eased the heavy door open and slipped into the central holding chamber.
The room was vast, circular, and incredibly cold. The walls were lined with dark oak panels. In the dead center of the room, resting on a draped steel bier, was Richard's casket.
It was made of polished mahogany, draped with an American flag.
I moved quickly across the room, my boots making no sound on the thick carpet. When I reached the casket, I stared down at the flag. A wave of profound grief threatened to overwhelm me, but I forced it down. There would be time to mourn later.
I ran my hands along the side of the casket. The wood was cold, but beneath it, I felt something strange. The dimensions were wrong. The wood was too thick, and it felt unnaturally heavy.
I tapped my knuckle against the side. The sound wasn't the hollow thud of wood. It was a dull, dense thud.
Lead.
The casket was lined with heavy lead. That was incredibly unusual for a standard military burial unless the body was radioactive, which Richard wasn't.
I moved to the latch on the side of the lid. To my surprise, the heavy brass lock wasn't secured.