Access Point 18 materialized through the darkness—a concrete bunker structure identical to dozens of others scattered throughout Duluth's industrial zones. Isla pulled to a hard stop near the entrance, noting immediately that Garrett's truck wasn't in the small parking area. No vehicle. No sign of recent activity. Just a locked steel door and the empty promise of an inspection that had never happened.
"He was never here," James said, already moving toward the access point with his flashlight. He tried the door—locked and secured, showing no signs of forced entry or recent use. "Radio check said he was at this location forty-seven minutes ago. He lied."
Isla pulled out her phone, opening the photographs she'd taken of Garrett's hand-drawn maps during their conference room meeting. The schematics showed the entire tunnel network in intricate detail, with notations about environmental conditions and access routes that only someone with decades of experience could have documented.
And there, marked in red ink on several of the abandoned sections, were locations Garrett had specifically identified as too dangerous to access without protective gear. Chambers whereextreme heat, toxic gases, or structural instability made them death traps for anyone unprepared.
Perfect places to lure an unsuspecting victim.
"He's not at any of the locations he said he'd inspect," Isla said, her mind racing through possibilities. "He's somewhere in the network we're not watching—somewhere he specifically directed us away from by identifying it as too dangerous for regular surveillance."
She spread the maps across the hood of her car, using her phone's flashlight to illuminate the complex web of passages. James moved beside her, both of them scanning for patterns, for locations that fit their emerging profile of the killer's methodology.
"Here," James said, pointing to a section marked in red with notations about extreme temperatures. "Junction D-11, also called 'the Furnace' according to Garrett's notes. He specifically warned us this chamber reaches 105 degrees even in winter, said it would be too dangerous to station personnel there without proper heat protection equipment."
"Which we don't have," Isla said, following the traced route from the nearest accessible entrance. "So, we couldn't cover it even if we wanted to. But if Garrett has protective gear from his maintenance work..."
She didn't need to finish the thought. A chamber hot enough to require protective equipment, isolated enough that screams would never reach the surface, marked on maps that only Garrett possessed in complete form. It fit the pattern perfectly.
Isla was already pulling out her phone, calling Morrison's number. He answered on the first ring, background noise suggesting he was mobilizing units.
"We think he's at Junction D-11," Isla said without preamble. "It's in the abandoned southeast section, access through Point 27. We need backup and we need heat protection gear—"
"Agent Rivers, Access Point 27 isn't on any city map. I don't even know where that is."
Of course he didn't because it was one of the hidden entrances Garrett had discovered over his decades underground, one of the passages that officially didn't exist but formed crucial connections in his private understanding of the network.
"It's in the basement level of Duluth Regional Hospital, west wing," Isla said, remembering Garrett's casual mention of the location during their meeting. "Medical facilities were built over old industrial infrastructure. The access point was supposed to be sealed, but Garrett said the seal failed."
"That's at least fifteen minutes from my position," Morrison said, and Isla could hear him already moving, could picture him coordinating with his officers. "I'll get units there as fast as possible, but—"
"We can't wait," Isla interrupted, making the decision even as she spoke it. "If he's down there with a victim, fifteen minutes might be too long. James and I are closer—we're going in now."
Morrison's protest was immediate and vehement, citing protocols and backup and the dozen reasons two agents shouldn't descend into a maze of tunnels to confront a serial killer alone. Isla let him talk while she studied the maps, tracing the route from Access Point 27 to Junction D-11.
"Backup is on the way," she said when Morrison paused for breath. "But we're not waiting. Send officers to every entrance in this sector—if Garrett tries to run, I want him boxed in."
She ended the call before he could argue further and turned to James, seeing her own grim determination reflected in his expression.
"We should wait for Morrison," James said, though his tone suggested he already knew what her answer would be.
"If there's a victim down there, we might not have time to wait." Isla pulled her service weapon, checking the magazine byhabit. "Garrett's killed three people in four days, and his timeline is accelerating. If he's preparing another murder scene right now—"
"Then we go," James finished. He checked his own weapon, then grabbed the heavy-duty flashlights from the trunk of Isla's sedan. "But we stay together. No splitting up, no matter what we hear or see down there."
Isla nodded, though part of her was already calculating that they'd cover more ground if they separated, could search multiple passages simultaneously instead of moving as a single unit. But James was right about the danger—Garrett knew these tunnels in a way they never could, had spent twenty-three years learning every junction and dead end and hidden passage. Down in that darkness, on his territory, they'd be operating at a profound disadvantage.
Together at least gave them numbers.
The drive to Duluth Regional Hospital took eight minutes that felt like hours, Isla's mind spinning through scenarios and contingencies while James coordinated with the backup units converging on the area. The hospital's west wing was older than the main structure, a squat concrete building that predated the modern medical complex by decades.
They found Access Point 27 exactly where Garrett's notes had indicated—a steel door in a maintenance corridor on the basement level, marked with faded warnings about authorized personnel only. The door stood slightly ajar, a wedge of absolute darkness visible in the gap.
"He's here," Isla said unnecessarily, her weapon already drawn. She nudged the door wider with her shoulder, revealing concrete stairs descending into humid warmth that rolled out like a physical presence. The air smelled of steam and rust and something else—something organic and unpleasant that madeher think of overheated machinery pushed past safe operating parameters.
James clicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting down into darkness that seemed to absorb the light. "Radio check," he said into his police radio. "We're entering Access Point 27, basement level of Duluth Regional Hospital. Time is 8:47 PM."
Morrison's response crackled back, distorted by interference but comprehensible: "Backup ETA seven minutes. Repeat, seven minutes. Do not engage without support."
