We walked through a labyrinth of dark, underground corridors beneath the cemetery. The air grew damp and smelled of old stone and mildew. My chest ached terribly, and my breathing was shallow.
I was eighty-two years old. I didn't have the strength to fight two men in their prime.
But I had something they didn't. I had desperation, and I knew exactly where I was.
As we approached the entrance to the old maintenance crypt, I noticed the heavy, iron-grated door hanging loosely on its hinges. The floor here was slick with condensation.
I needed a distraction. I needed them to drop their guard.
I let my knees buckle. I collapsed heavily onto the damp concrete floor, clutching my chest with both hands. I began to gasp frantically, mimicking the exact symptoms of a massive cardiac event.
It wasn't entirely an act. The pain in my chest was real, a symptom of my failing heart and the sheer exhaustion of the morning.
"Get up!" the mercenary shouted, kicking me in the ribs.
I screamed in pain, curling into a tight ball, my breathing ragged and wet.
Harris sighed in annoyance. "Hold on. If he dies out here in the hallway, we have to drag his dead weight all the way to the incinerator. Get him on his feet."
The mercenary slung his rifle over his shoulder to free both hands. He leaned down, grabbing me by the lapels of my faded coat to haul me upward.
It was the mistake I needed.
As the mercenary pulled me close, I stopped gasping. I snapped my right hand upward, driving the heavy steel bezel of my vintage mechanical watch directly into the soft cartilage of the mercenary’s throat.
The man made a horrible, wet choking sound. His grip released.
Before Harris could react, I grabbed the heavy tactical flashlight clipped to the mercenary’s vest. I spun on my heel, ignoring the screaming pain in my joints, and smashed the heavy metal cylinder directly across Harris's temple.
Harris stumbled backward, disoriented, blood instantly pouring down the side of his face.
I didn't stop. I threw my entire body weight forward, slamming Harris into the iron-grated door. He crashed through it, sprawling onto the floor of the crypt.
The mercenary on the ground was still clutching his crushed windpipe, unable to breathe.
I knew Harris would recover in seconds. I stepped over the mercenary, reached into Harris's pocket, and snatched back my lockpicks and the rusted iron key.
Then I slammed the heavy iron door shut, pulling the exterior deadbolt across the frame, locking Harris and his dying man inside the crypt.
I leaned against the stone wall, gasping for air, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. I had survived, but I was out of time.
I pulled the rusted key from my pocket. '114'.
I reinterpreted the clue instantly. The key wasn't for a lockbox. It was for a location.
Fortress Hill had a massive, outdoor columbarium—a wall of vaults containing cremated remains. The vaults were numbered.
Richard's note said: The eagle rests at noon.
I checked my watch. It was 11:52 AM.
I staggered down the corridor, moving as fast as my battered body would allow. I found a service stairwell and pushed open the door, stepping out into the freezing wind of the cemetery grounds.
I was behind the main amphitheater. I could hear the muffled sound of a military band playing a somber march in the distance. The funeral had begun.
I moved through the rows of white headstones until I reached the towering marble columbarium walls. At the center of the courtyard stood a massive bronze statue of a bald eagle, its wings spread wide in eternal flight.
I looked at the ground. The sun, sitting high in the pale winter sky, cast a long, sharp shadow of the eagle across the courtyard.
I watched the shadow move as the seconds ticked by.
At exactly noon, the tip of the eagle's shadowed wing touched a specific brass plaque on the wall.
Vault 114.
I rushed to the wall. The vault didn't have a nameplate. It was listed as unoccupied. I slid the rusted iron key into the small lock beside the plaque.
It turned smoothly.
I pulled the heavy marble faceplate open. Inside the dark, narrow space, there was no urn.
Instead, there was a thick, waterproof yellow envelope, and a heavy, black military-grade radio transmitter with a single red button on top.