Chapter 7 - The Trap at Aldridge StreetThe old apartment building at 214 Aldridge Street looked even more derelict in the midday gloom. The closed laundromat downstairs was dark, its dusty windows covered in peeling graffiti.
Two unmarked security SUVs pulled up to the curb, doors flying open as four armed operatives in tactical gear spilled out. They checked their weapons, communicating in low, clipped tones through their earpieces.
"Perimeter secure," the lead operative reported into his radio. "Sweeping the stairwell now."
Inside Apartment 3C, the air was cold and damp. The door had been temporarily repaired with a heavy wooden plank, but the marks of the forced entry were still raw and jagged.
The operatives moved through the tiny kitchen, checking the corners, clearing the bathroom, and peering into the empty bedrooms. Everything was silent. Too silent.
"Command, this is Alpha Team. The apartment is clear. No sign of intrusion."
Back at Graves Tower, Nathaniel listened to the update through his encrypted earpiece, but a strange, nagging instinct prickled at the back of his neck. Too easy. Malcolm wasn't a coward who hid; he was a predator who hunted.
"Alpha Team, check the basement," Nathaniel ordered sharply. "The old storage lockers beneath the laundry room."
"Copy that, sir. Moving to the basement."
Down in the damp, subterranean corridors beneath the building, the air smelled of mold and old rust. The operative flicked on his tactical flashlight, sweeping the harsh beam across rows of rotting wooden doors.
At the very end of the hall stood an iron door secured with a heavy, modern digital keypad—a keypad that definitely didn't belong in a run-down, eighty-year-old tenement building.
"Sir, we found something," the operative whispered into his radio. "An unmapped sub-level. There's a digital lock on the door."
"Can you bypass it?" Nathaniel asked.
"Give me ten seconds."
Inside the command center at Graves Tower, we watched the live helmet-cam feed on the massive wall screen. The green numbers on the digital lock ticked down. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Click.
The heavy iron door swung slowly open, revealing a flight of concrete stairs leading down into absolute darkness.
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The operative stepped inside, raising his rifle. The beam of his flashlight cut through the dust, illuminating rows of computer servers, blinking monitors, and financial ledgers stacked floor-to-ceiling.
It was a subterranean command center. And sitting in a leather executive chair in the center of the room, calmly spinning a silver pen between his fingers, was Malcolm Graves.
