How could this be real?
Winter glanced over at Sydney. She was leaning against the back of the elevator, unconsciously cracking her knuckles, her expression almostbored. As he looked on, she took a subtle, calm breath again before exhaling slowly through her mouth.
This was the third time he’d seen her do it. Winter noted it quietly, then looked away.
“The Panacea Group has been active since the United States’ Revolutionary War,” Sauda explained. “After the signing of the Declaration of Independence, our founder, Charlotte May Hughes, widow and heiress to the Hughes family fortune, thought it necessary to create a secret agency not beholden to the government, one wealthy and independent enough to operate on its own terms. Over the centuries, our agents have been involved in everything from protecting the Underground Railroad to spying on the Confederacy during the Civil War, to fighting the American mafia during Prohibition, to carrying out missions against the Nazis during World War II. Sometimes we partner with the CIA and other agencies around the world, but not always.” She folded her arms. “Mrs. Hughes wanted us to always have the power to choose what is right over what is diplomatic. That’s the creed we strive to honor here.”
She turned to nod at the enormous chamber. “Our current location had originally been intended for a series of iron mines that were abandoned back in the nineteenth century. Then there were plans to convert it into a particle collider laboratory. The lab ultimately decided to move their location deeper into the desert, and the Claremont Hotel went up over this space. So we bought the hotel and outfitted this subterranean space for our needs. Underground, shielded from prying eyes, good to experiment with small-scale versions of new weapons, good for keeping secrets locked away. Good for keeping people off our property, too, and also good for not being in the news for excavating a mysterious new place.”
“And what, exactly, is this?” Winter asked.
“Where we keep and test all the equipment you and the rest of our agents use,” Niall answered as the elevator finally came to a stop. “Weapons,disguises, customized phones and listening devices. You name it, we’ll have it. Many of the floors above this space are dedicated to research. You’ll spend your time here, and the floor below it.”
“There’s more?”
Sydney nodded and spoke for the first time since entering the elevator. “Training floor’s under us,” she told him. “We all have to practice somewhere.”
Artie had been here. He had worked here, had wandered this secret world.
His gaze finally settled back on Niall. “What was Artie’s job?”
“He began as a junior analyst,” the man answered as the doors opened and Sauda guided them out. “Interned for me for six months, breaking codes and intercepting messages. But his Peace Corps work—which became his cover—made him more ideal for placement as a field operative.”
“So, an actual spy.”
He nodded gravely. “A good one.”
There was unspoken grief in his voice. Winter felt a lump suddenly lodge in his throat. All those times he had rushed out of the house to wave goodbye to Artie as he drove off to the airport on some Peace Corps mission or other, he’d really been saying farewell to a secret agent heading into some of the most dangerous situations in the world. And yet, every time Artie came back, he brought presents for Mom and souvenirs for Winter, would tell animated stories during dinner about his supposed adventures, as if everything were normal. Sometimes Winter would catch him acting uncharacteristically quiet, but he always assumed it was because Peace Corps work could be heavy on the heart.
What had Artie really endured on his own?
He followed the others numbly as they turned into one of the arched halls, this one filled with rows of cars. He could make out a few of their brands—Mercedes, Porsches, McLarens, Bugattis. Sandwiched betweenthem were cars in every make and model, from supercars to tiny smart cars to cars that could be in an average family’s driveway.
“They may look like vehicles you recognize,” Sauda said to him, “but they’re not. None of those models exist in the world above.” She paused in front of a titanium-colored Mazda, then clapped her hands twice.
Instead of opening as Winter expected, the Mazda’s doors slid sideways, and the sedan’s interior transformed into a flat space with the chairs folded back, with a secret compartment under the floor.
“For transporting injured people,” she said, “and tending to their wounds on the go without the attention and publicity of an ambulance. Or for smuggling informants and high-risk refugees.” She clapped three times, and four sharp-edged triangles of metal extended out from the vehicle’s underbelly. “For slicing the wheels of any car that might be harassing you.”
Then she clapped again—and the car’s entire body shifted, its wheels sucking up underneath its frame and new plates of steel coming down to seal the entire bottom of it in metal. “For if you need to change gears, quite literally, to aquatic travel.”
Winter had seen his share of unusual cars before, but he found himself staring speechless at the transformed sedan.
Beside him, Sydney let out a low whistle. “Do we get one of these for our mission?” she asked.
Sauda clapped a final time, and the car reset itself until it once more looked like a family car. “Not this time. Maybe someday.”
They exited the car hall and moved on, stepping onto a transporter that lifted them up to a higher level of archways. Here, she ushered them toward another hall, this one with an entrance sealed by a glass wall. She laid her palm flat against the glass, and it slid open without a sound, opening up to a series of adjoined cubicles. The door sealed behind them with a hush, and suddenly the bustle of the main floor cut off. Winter shivered as he looked up at the vaulted archway’s ceiling. It both feltcomforting to be in this sealed space—and a little like he’d just stepped into a catacomb.
They stopped before a row of podiums, each of them supporting glass display cases. His gaze settled on the first case. It took him a moment to realize what he was staring at.
“Those are my earrings,” he said.
“They’re not,” Niall replied gruffly. “They just look like them.”
Winter looked back down at the case in disbelief. The earrings were an exact replica of a pair that Claire had gifted him years ago—right down to a slight scratch on the left’s silver frame.
He looked sharply at Sauda. “Why?”
