The road is straight here, and I’m way over the speed limit. “I’m approaching it now.” A bit further, and I’m plunged into darkness. The road curves, but it doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust.
“Once you’re out, look for the first road headed east. It comes up quick.”
The tunnel is less than a mile long, and I can see the white opening rising ahead. I can’t help it, I open the throttle even more until I’m devouring the distance. I’ve got to make up for lost time. If Blix is planning to leave the country, he’s got an enormous head start.
Rain hits me in the face when I shoot out on the opposite end of the underground passageway.
“Shit,” I hiss, flipping the visor down over my eyes. I’m thankful for my leather jacket, but the stinging drops hit my exposed skin like pellets from a gun. “How much further,” I ask.
“Did you find the road? It’s unmarked.”
I ease off the throttle straining my eyes for the road. Trees pass. A cutoff fools me at first. I’m about to pick up the pace when I see it. Hidden in the trees, a very narrow dirt road. Tree limbs hang low over the entrance, and it’s dark and undisturbed.
“I’ve found something, but it doesn’t appear to have been used in ages.”
“That’s it. Take it.”
Without question, I turn the wheel sharply, thankful for the shelter of the trees against the storm. The rain is picking up, but the canopy overhead makes it easier for me to go fast.
The road isn’t winding. It’s a straight shot east and somewhat south, in the direction of the sea, only at a higher altitude. I have no idea what I’m looking for.
“Will it dead end?” I ask my remote guide.
“No, but on the satellite image, I see a stone structure. It’s ancient, and it’s in an open location.”
I’m about to ask more questions when the trees part, and I zoom into a clearing. Letting off the gas, I hit the breaks so hard, the back wheel skids to the side. My boots are down, and I’m able to brace the bike and catch my balance. In the center of the clearing is an enormous stone windmill—or what’s left of one.
It’s tall, wider at the base and rising to a narrow top, which is broken and missing. The wooden arms of the mill are rotted away, and only one remains at its full length. I can only hope the thunder masked the noise of my engine. I kill it and roll back into the low-hanging trees to hide and have shelter.
“What’s happening here,” I say, scanning the perimeter, looking for any signs of life.
“It’s where Kass’s signal is coming from.”
Dread filters through my chest like acid. This place is grey and deserted. No cars, no lights, no signs of anyone. It could be the rain making it appear empty… or it could be something worse.
“I’m going in.” I rip the helmet off my head and check the pistol in my back holster. Safety off. The knife in my boot is backup.
Clinging to the tree line, I make my way around the clearing, looking for any signs of guards or spies. I don’t see cameras. I don’t see anything.
“I don’t like this at all,” I mutter.
I decide not to waste any more time. I dart across the open space, glancing over my shoulder to be sure no one’s closed in behind me. Nothing is there. The opening is much shorter than I am and curved. The white stone is stained, and the words Pinot and Sicilia are scratched in the surface.
Ducking into the narrow space, it opens at once to the large interior. Rough hewn blocks are exposed where the plaster has worn away, and it extends straight up to the broken ceiling. It’s dark, and drops of rain fall to greater and lesser degrees all around me. I see the giant gear near the ceiling with a thick metal post extending down to another giant gear. The grinding mechanism at least is intact, even if the means of running it is gone.
“It’s empty,” I whisper. “No one is here.”
“Impossible,” Freddie’s voice is equally quiet in my ear, as if he’s looking through my eyes at this abandoned edifice.
Should I call her name? My boots make a shushing noise on the sandy floor. Little bits of gravel crunch with my steps. “There’s got to be a mistake…”
Then I see it. Near the floor at the back wall is a small, black rectangle. The frame is painted aqua blue, and all around it is rotten wood and decay. My stomach tightens. Reaching around to my back, I pull out my gun, holding it right at my face as I carefully pick my way through the mill.
“I’m approaching a tiny room,” I whisper.
It’s completely dark inside except for white light filtering in through a narrow opening. Fumbling at my coat pocket, I take out my phone and switch on the camera light. Dust motes dance in the beam cutting through the darkness. It smells like mildew and musty earth. My throat stings, but I fight a cough.
The light only allows me to see a small circle wherever it hits in this space. Tension creeps up my shoulders when it hits a small, metal card table. Water puddles around it, and my eyes land on what looks like an electrical cord.