Chapter 9 - THE DESCENT
The industrial freight elevator descended slowly into the subterranean levels beneath the Gallagher estate, its mechanical gears humming loudly in the concrete shaft.
Inside the steel elevator cab, the atmospheric contrast was absolute. Desmond sat in his sleek motorized wheelchair, wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt, dark pants, and a black leather jacket thrown over his shoulders to ward off the underground chill. Frankie stood beside him, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol discreetly behind his back. Emma stood directly behind Desmond’s chair, her hand resting firmly on the emergency manual brake handle, her eyes watching the portable heart-rate monitor strapped to his wrist.
Ding.
The heavy steel doors slid open, revealing the cold, damp concrete corridor of the estate's private holding facility—a secure, soundproof basement complex built decades ago for high-stakes interrogations and asset protection.
Standing at the end of the long hallway, illuminated by a single harsh fluorescent bulb, were two heavy guards. Positioned behind a reinforced steel door with a small, bulletproof glass window was the holding cell.
As the wheelchair rolled smoothly down the concrete corridor, the rhythmic hum of its electric motor echoing off the damp walls, the man sitting inside the cell turned toward the small window.
Through the reinforced glass, the traitor’s face was revealed.
It was Julian—Desmond’s thirty-two-year-old cousin, his chief financial controller, and the man who had sat at Desmond’s bedside in the hospital every single day for the first three months after the bombing, weeping real tears for his cousin's paralyzed legs.
Desmond stopped his wheelchair three feet short of the door. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, a blank, terrifying slate of ice.
Julian’s eyes widened through the small glass window as he saw Desmond sitting in the wheelchair in the dim corridor light. His face turned pale, his hands trembling as he reached toward the iron handle, realizing the door was locked from the outside.
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"Desmond..." Julian’s voice drifted through the small intercom grille, thin and desperate. "Desmond, thank God you're here! Frankie's men brought me down here an hour ago! They won't tell me what's going on! There's been a massive security breach on the dock accounts—"
"Save it, Julian," Desmond interrupted, his voice low, flat, and hollow as a grave.
