Keeping my pace slow and even to accommodate Delilah, I guide her through the dungeons and the door leading to the tunnels. The temperature drops and the air thickens as soon as we step inside the dark entrance. I retrieve my flashlight and turn it on, revealing the dusty path ahead.
“Please tell me you know where you’re going,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She shuffles closer to me. “I really don’t want to get lost in there.”
“We won’t. Unfortunately, I spent a lot of time here.”
Delilah squeezes my hand. “Training?”
“Training,” I affirm. “Come on.”
As I lead her through the corridors of the tunnels, I keep a watch on my bride’s physical condition. Every puff of air that leaves her lips, the cadence of her steps, I pay attention to. As much as I want to share my secret with her, I won’t do it to her detriment.
The only sound—other than Delilah’s heavy breathing—is our footsteps that echo quietly off the concrete walls and the pipes running along the ceiling. The campus above us is nonexistent this far below ground. This secluded place, full of terror and demons, eventually turned into a sanctuary for me. Delilah said she wanted to see both the dark and light parts of my life. That is best represented here.
As we walk, I point out markings on the walls. Some are official, denoting directions and distances to the various buildings on campus. Others are less so. The streaks of blood, now dark brown with age, paint a gruesome picture.
Some of it’s mine.
After a lot of twists and turns, we finally arrive at our destination. I stop in front of the designated wall and face Delilah. She rests her hands on her thighs, her shoulders hunched as she catches her breath.
“Please tell me we’re almost there.”
“We’re here.”
She glances around the empty tunnel. “I’m not trying to be rude, but if you dragged my ass all over kingdom come just to show me a wall, I’m going be pissed.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
“The Bible, really? From an assassin?”
I grin at her. “Even the devil knows scripture.”
“Fair. Okay, seriously, why are we here?”
“This hides a secret room.”
She straightens and studies the wall, dragging her fingertips over the surface. Then she looks at me and frowns. “I don’t see anything. How do you know we’re in the right place?”
“You see the pipes that line the ceiling and some of the walls? I have them all memorized.”
I grab hold of the ringed section of one of the pipes and turn it clockwise. Even after all of these years, the motion is smooth, without the noise of grinding gears or shifting bolts. A soft click is the only sound before I push on the flat surface and the outline of a door comes into view.
“Wow,” Delilah whispers. “How did you figure that out?”
“By accident. I was trying to find my way out of here and got turned around. After taking out my frustrations on the wall by punching and kicking it a few times, I grabbed the pipe to steady myself. As soon as I put my weight on it, it moved. Wait here.”
I push the door open so I can slip inside and turn on the lights. Delilah steps into the doorway, her gaze wide with curiosity. The transition from the dimly lit tunnel to the room isstark, the hidden area now bathed in a soft glow provided by the lanterns strung along the walls.
“What is this place?” she asks.
I walk up to her and take her hand, tugging her into the center of the room. “You said you wanted to know me. Well, this place is a museum of my life.”
It’s an eclectic mix of possessions, each with its own story, each one a piece of the puzzle that represents a moment in my past. To the left is a small wooden desk, its surface worn from years of use, holds a collection of items. Among them is a well-thumbed copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristo. I didn’t feel so alone when reading about someone who also wanted revenge.
There’s also a small box filled with souvenirs from my life lessons: an intricately carved wooden bowl from Guatemala, containing shell-casings of the bullets used to kill the man who betrayed my father; a set of brass knuckles I was given to torture the informant who refused to tell us where a missing shipment had ended up; a coil of rope my father bound me with before he beat me half to death.
Then there are the weapons.
Nestled in the corner lies a collection of modern weaponry displayed on shelves constructed from cinder blocks and planks of wood. The assortment includes a variety of pistols, handguns, and knives, each meticulously maintained and arranged with a precision that shows my respect for their capabilities.
