When the train yard appears ahead, Cooper’s shoulders relax marginally. The sprawling complex offers cover, multiple routes, and proximity to our destination. Steel tracks gleam dully under security lights, empty train cars lined up like sleeping giants.
“Through there.” Cooper points toward a gap in the fence. “Union Station maintenance tunnels connect to the yard. Service entrance will be guarded, but there’s a ventilation shaft that bypasses security.”
The fence slices my palm as I squeeze through the gap, adding another small pain to the catalog of discomforts. Cooper follows with difficulty, his larger frame struggling through the narrow opening, fresh blood staining his bandage from the effort.
Train yards exist in a different temporal reality—neither fully night nor day, operating on rhythms separate from the city above. Workers move between cars with flashlights, their voices carrying across empty space. We stay low, using the massive wheel assemblies for cover.
Cooper’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward a concrete structure squatting between tracks. Themaintenance access looks abandoned—rust streaking the metal door, warning signs faded by years of exposure.
“Here.”
The lock yields to Cooper’s tactical knife, tumblers clicking into place. The door swings open with a groan that makes me wince, revealing stairs descending into darkness.
“Stay close. These tunnels are a maze.”
Underground, the air changes—cooler, damper, carrying the metallic scent of machinery and the earthier smell of concrete that never sees sunlight. Our footsteps echo despite careful placement, each sound magnified by curved walls.
“These tunnels run under most of Union Station,” Cooper whispers, his voice bouncing back from the darkness ahead. “Maintenance access, electrical conduits, old storage areas from when the station was built.”
“How do you know this place?”
“Cerberus ran an operation here three years ago. Arms dealer using passenger luggage to move product.”
The casual mention of his past operations creates a strange intimacy—glimpses into the life he lived before Phoenix, before me. Each revelation forms another piece of the puzzle that is Cooper McKenzie.
The tunnel branches, then branches again. Cooper navigates with certainty despite the darkness, one hand trailing along the wall, the other still holding his weapon. When he finally stops, we’ve reached a junction where several tunnels converge into a larger space.
“Here.” He gestures toward a metal door set into the concrete wall. “Maintenance office. Abandoned when they upgraded the systems five years ago.”
The room beyond is small but functional—desk pushed against one wall, filing cabinets rusted with age, a cot that must have served some overnight supervisor in years past. The singlewindow has been painted black, preventing light from betraying our position.
“Is it safe?” The question slips out as Cooper secures the door behind us.
“Safe enough.” He sinks onto the desk chair, face tight with pain. “Phoenix won’t expect us to double back toward the station. They’ll expand their search grid outward, not inward.”
The space feels secure in ways the maintenance shed never did—thick concrete walls, multiple escape routes through the tunnel system, proximity to crowds that provide anonymity. For the first time in hours, my shoulders relax.
Cooper’s gaze catches on something I missed—an old rotary phone sitting on the desk, its beige plastic yellowed with age.
“Landline.” His voice carries unexpected relief. “Still connected.”
“How can you tell?”
He lifts the receiver, and the soft hum of a dial tone fills the small space. “Old system. Probably maintained for emergency communications. Phoenix monitors cell networks, internet traffic—but old copper wire? Much harder to tap into without physical access.”
His fingers dial a number from memory, movements precise despite his obvious pain. The shoulder wound has soaked through his bandage again, dark stain spreading across the fabric.
Cooper’s voice changes when the call connects—deeper, more professional. “Whisper. Authentication code Sierra-Echo-Seven-Niner.”
A pause as he listens.
“Affirmative. Safe house compromised. Multiple hostiles. Package secure, but we’re mobile.” Another pause. “Negative. Took fire. Shoulder’s hit. Through-and-through, but it’s limiting mobility.”
My stomach clenches at the clinical description ofhis wound. “Limiting mobility” sounds so much less severe than the reality: Cooper struggling to stay conscious, blood soaking through bandages, skin growing paler by the hour.
“Current position?” His eyes meet mine as he listens. “Roger that. Maintenance office beneath Union Station. Access via southern rail yard service tunnels.”
Cooper falls silent, listening intently. His jaw tightens at whatever is being said.
