“Like how?”

  “Well, you can start by shaping up. You’re a sergeant in the Boston Police Department. You can’t afford to take shortcuts or play fast and loose anymore. The men and women under your command expect you to lead by example, and they won’t follow if they can’t trust you.”

  “You think they trust me now?”

  He gave me a serious look. “You think they don’t?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that one.

  “Just stop and think before you take that next step. Ask yourself what it is you want for the men and women who serve under your command. And what you would think if they pulled the same stunt you’re about to? Then go from there.”

  Much as I hated to admit it, Rickson had a point. And he had given me something to think about. Later, once Tobin and Milo were safe. “Okay, I hear you, Rick, but I’ve got to go now.” I reached up and squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever it is you’re up to, you don’t have to do it alone, Chloe.”

  “I’m not alone,” I said. “But you can’t come with me. Not this time.”

  He nodded with obvious reluctance. “Anything I should know before you go?”

  “Come morning, if the city is still standing it probably means we succeeded.”

  He frowned. “What if it’s not?”

  I shook my head. “Then I guess we didn’t, and things are about to change for everyone.”

  Road to The Door. Friday, August 7th 2145hrs.

  We drove back to the Union Oyster House and parked in the back lot behind the alley. The restaurant had closed nearly an hour before, and the few remaining cars likely belonged to the cleaning crew. Outside, it was quiet and empty, the only light coming from the old-style lantern fastened to the red brick exterior.

  Easton had taken it upon himself to procure a van. I didn’t know from where and probably didn’t want to. Leaning against the back with his arms crossed, he was still dressed like one of those alpha-male bootcamp instructors. The kind where men pay obscene amounts of money to lay in the surf and get yelled at about how they’re not living up to their full potential. Black shirt. Black shorts. He still had his duty belt on, except now he’d added a pistol holster. Inside was a sleek, heavily modified handgun, similar to what you might see at a shooter’s tournament. He had a military backpack strapped across his shoulders and wore a headlamp with a built-in flashlight.

  Warman stood a couple of feet away from him. Dressed in thick denim with a leather jerkin over his shirt and a heavy blacksmith’s hammer slung inside his belt folds.

  Alberad stood beside him, dressed in gray wading pants, the kind that fly-fisherman wore, with built in rubber boots and a khaki long sleeved shirt. Not exactly suitable for sewer diving but likely the best he could come up with on short notice.

  Auggy wore a purple t-shirt with some rock band’s logo across the front, a pair of Adidas athletic pants, and a khaki safari hat. He’d donned a hiker’s backpack containing the trio of tree samples, as well as a small bouquet of wildflowers poking out from the side pocket.

  Cort was dressed in heavy layers with a wool beanie cap over his head and no visible weapons that I could see.

  “Alright,” I said. “I guess that’s everyone. Anyone got anything pressing they need to say?” No one did, and I waited a moment before turning to Cort. “Okay, it’s your show. Where to?”

  Cort motioned toward the van. “All aboard.”

  We piled into the van. Easton drove, with Cort riding shotgun. I ended up in the middle row next to the window seat opposite Warman. Tobin sat between us, his hand occasionally rising to trace the ring hanging from his neck. Guess I wasn’t the only one dealing with anxiety.

  It took about twenty minutes for us to make it to Cambridge. Passing over the Anderson Memorial Bridge, we drove a few more blocks before Easton pulled over. There, looming large at the end of the block, stood our destination.

  Harvard University.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as we unloaded.

  Cort glanced at me. “Where else did you think they would put the entrance?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  Easton exited the driver’s seat, then dropped down beside the front tire wheel and stashed the key inside. “Last thing before we proceed.” He reached inside his pack and withdrew several of the headlamps, passing them out along with a palm-size, change purse containing spare batteries. I shoved the purse down into my pocket and slipped the headlamp on. From there, we did a last equipment check before everyone indicated they were ready.

  “Okay, here we go,” Cort said. “Stay close, follow where I walk, and try not to draw attention to yourselves.”

  We fell into step behind him, and Cort led the way with slow, easy strides. From a distance, we probably looked like a group of friends out for a late-night stroll. Passersbys not worth looking twice at, or so I hoped. We reached the end of the block and turned west, passing down a narrow, one-way side street running parallel to the University. After a couple of blocks we took a hard left just past Claverly Hall and made our way across the street.

  A tapered wrought iron fence protected the university grounds, and the wide entry gate located between Wadsworth House and Wigglesworth Hall, known as the Morgan Gate, was closed for the night. Over the years, there had been calls for Harvard to leave their gates permanently open, but every time they had acquiesced a series of vandalisms had swiftly followed. Eventually, they’d simply stopped acknowledging the requests and now closed the gates nightly.

  We crossed the street and stacked up along the gate, keeping to the shadows when we could. At Cort’s urging, Warman took up position against the red brick wall, interlocked his fingers, and motioned us forward. I went first, placing the ball of my foot in his connected palms and pushing as he hoisted. I cleared the wall and slid down the other side, landing in a crouch before freezing.

  No sound of alarm rang out. No screams or shouts to halt. The night remained quiet and empty.

  Tobin followed next, then Cort, and so on. Easton came second to last, pausing near the top and offering Warman a hand up. The pair came down together, all of us gathered in a low cluster near the bushes.

  “This way,” Cort said once we were all accounted for.

  He slid out from beside the wall and led us through the campus, sticking to the shadows along the edges of the pathways whenever possible. We skirted up and around, passing dormitories and classroom buildings before drawing up beside a five-story red brick structure that didn’t quite capture the grandeur of its adjacent counterparts. Cort dropped down near the southwestern wall and began running his fingers over the bricks.

  “What’s this?”

  “Massachusetts Hall. It’s the oldest building in Harvard. Been rebuilt twice. Once after it was stripped by colonial soldiers in 1775 for wartime supplies, and once after a fire broke out in 1924. Three centuries she’s stood tall, and all the while she’s held her secrets close.”

  His hand came to rest on a brick with a circular ring shape inscribed in the stone. He gave it a push, and something clicked down by our feet. A small entryway about the size and height of a fireplace swung open to reveal a stairway leading down.

  “You want me to go in first?” Cort asked.

  I shook my head and took the lead, stepping inside before activating my headlamp.

  People think the T-Line is the only subway system ever to be built in Boston. It’s not. There have been dozens of projects undertaken over the years. Some barely got off the ground, while others were nearing completion before being abandoned for one reason or another. No one is really certain how far down they go. Even the map secured by Penhaligon served more like a guide marker than concise directions. Bottom line, if we got lost down here, it was unlikely that anyone would ever find us.

  “Chloe?” Cort asked from behind me.

  I gave myself a shake. “Right. I’m going.”

  The descending stairway ended at an unremarkable steel door, its surface blistered by decades of damp and cold. Its hinge squealed as I pushed it open, echoing too loudly in my mind, even though I knew it was too early to run into trouble yet. Beyond the door, the last traces of the city’s red brick veneer vanished into a maze of concrete and iron. The air was cooler down here, causing my skin to prickle, and had a damp, mineral aroma that made me think of rust and old water. Moisture clung to every surface, beading along the walls and tracing pale tear tracks along the stone.

  Our footsteps echoed in the narrow utility tunnel as we walked. I stayed in the lead position, with Cort acting as my navigator. Warman kept watch over the noncombatants in our party, and Easton brought up the rear.

  The utility tunnel led us to a large, abandoned subway station chamber containing half a dozen tunnels branching off into various directions. As we stepped through the mouth, I had a sudden flashback to a time when I’d gone hunting for a little girl and found myself in a mad clown’s lair. The air suddenly felt colder, but I told myself this time was different and banished the memory as far back in my mind as it would allow.

  Cort touched my shoulder and motioned to the tunnel second from my left. I nodded, and headed that way, the more pragmatic part of my brain noting just how easy it was to become disoriented down here.

  We walked along for the better part of an hour, through tunnels and abandoned subway stations, and even through a series of chambers that resembled an underground shopping center that had never come to fruition. Occasionally, the utility tunnels would brush up against the sewers at sharp angles, the walls cracked and pockmarked with the outlines of various pipes and cables that had once occupied them.

  The tunnels narrowed the deeper we went, decay and corrosion pressing close from all sides. At times, the ceiling dropped low, forcing us to hunch or climb our way over sections of broken rocks and stone, the remnants of minor cave-ins that hadn’t managed to bring the tunnel down with it.

  The only light came from our headlamps, their golden beams casting a jaundiced glow that flattened colors into shades of rust and shadow. Every so often, the surrounding walls trembled, the combined vibrations signaling the pulse of electricity, water, or the passing of one of the T-Line trains in the distance.

  Eventually, Cort reached up and touched my shoulder. “We’re entering the wretches’ territory now. We’ll want to be quiet.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Pass the word.”

  He nodded and word spread through the rest of our party. I risked a glance back, and saw worry, apprehension, and fear reflecting back at me in their eyes. Even Warman bore a grim, stoic expression, and Easton…seemed more or less unbothered, which creeped me out on a whole different level.

  I exhaled, and tapped my fingers against my gun handle before saying, “Ready?”

  Cort nodded. “Just take it slow. We’ll be fine.”

  I nodded and forced my feet to carry me forward. Stepping into the next tunnel, I instantly noted a change in the air. The aroma of decay and corrosion was thicker here, so much so that I could taste it in the back of my throat. As we walked, I began to suspect that we had somehow left the subterranean tunnels and entered the cancerous underbelly of the city. Above, Boston stood beautiful, filled with good food and historic charm. Below, it sweated, leaked, and crumbled, poisoned water sliding through its veins, black and glossy with scraps of pale foam pulsing along.

  We reached the end of the first tunnel, and I could feel my anxiety rising. There were signs of life that hadn’t been there previously. Empty cans and torn food wrappers, along with discarded trash and, eww, human refuse in the corners. The hairs along the back of my neck were standing straight at attention, and every fiber of my being was sounding the red alert. Every turn we came to left me breathless. I kept expecting to run headfirst into… I didn’t know exactly. The Acadians were bad enough, but the sort of folks who would willingly reside in these tunnels… look, I know they say we’re all just people, but I couldn’t begin to wrap my head around what would make someone choose to dwell down here. Call me narrow minded, but I just couldn’t bring myself to—

  Cort seized my shoulder and whispered, “Stop that.”

  I blinked. “Stop what?”

  “Holding your breath. It’s making you go too fast. Slow and steady. Just breathe.”

  Right. I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but he was right. Holding my breath was causing me to speed up, which was making me sloppy. I nodded and forced myself to exhale, then took two more breaths before starting forward.

  Glancing back, I saw I wasn’t the only one among our party that was affected. Alberad started whispering to himself, maybe the Lord’s prayer or words of similar encouragement, I couldn’t be sure, but Warman laid a hand on his arm, and he gave a startled look, then offered a tight-lipped nod before falling silent. Tobin followed behind Cort, his face a stretched mask of determination, one hand clasping the ring around his throat. Auggy glanced about nervously, and Easton’s expression hadn’t changed.

  I couldn’t say how long we were in the wretches’ tunnels. Logically, I knew it was less time than the first part of our journey, but the rising tension made it seem longer. Eventually, we passed through a final utility tunnel and entered into a large chamber three times the size of any we’d been in before. The chamber was separated into two distinct sides connected by a stone bridge extending out over a flowing cistern sunk deep into the floor. Flashing my headlamp right, I noted several tunnel entrances leading onto the platform we occupied. Clearly, ours was not the only pathway here.

  “Where to now?” I asked Cort.

  “We’re close,” he said. “Should be just over the bridge.”

  I nodded and led our party across the platform to the bridge’s edge. The stone walkway offered no railing, its single arch stretching out over the cistern’s brackish body. Below, dank water filled it to the lip, and its surface carried a faint oil-sheen, catching our headlamp’s light and reflecting it back like bruised gold from a tarnished mirror. As we drew close, I caught the sour-metal scent of rot and minerals rising from the water.

  “Hope we’ve all had our tetanus shots,” I said.

  I stepped out onto the bridge, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw began to ache. One step, then another, I made my way along the arch until, mercifully, I came to the other side.

  Something had been there, once. Whether a series of columns or a stone archway I couldn’t say, but it had long since collapsed, its base shattering and sending large stones and piles of rubble spread across the platform. I picked my steps carefully and came through the wreckage onto the other side, where I caught my first sight of the door.

  It was a circular doorway comprised of thick steel, like you would expect to find in a bank vault. There was no handle that I could see, no wheel or other means of opening it. Just three flat-line nooks cut into the body, each roughly large enough to fit a dinner plate. Three bronze placards were embedded in the door overtop each of the nooks. The first displayed a moderately sized elm tree. The second a more expansive one. The third placard contained an upright oak tree overlooking a cliff side.

  “Alright, folks, we’re here,” I said. “Time to get this door open. Auggy, you’re up.”

  “Right.” Auggy swallowed and skipped to the head of the line as the others fanned out around us. Coming up beside the door, he knelt down and lowered the zipper of his bag before drawing out the first of three samples. Penhaligon had them marked and labeled. Auggy peeled the protective wrapping and slid in the first, followed by the second, and then, finally, the third.

  Then we waited.

  I listened keenly, but if there were any sensors inside, I never heard them. What I did hear was a sudden zap of electricity, like the kind I would occasionally encounter in old houses when the ceiling fan kicked on.

  But this was no ceiling fan.

  Five or six seconds after Auggy slid in the final tree sample, a red line roughly the width of my finger appeared across the top of the vault door, and a blaring alarm began to sound, its sharp, piercing wails echoing across the chamber and through the tunnels.

  Signaling any who might hear that we were here.

  Into The Tower. Saturday, August 8th 0029hrs.

  “Auggy!” I screamed.

  “I don’t know,” he cried, staring at the door. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

  Easton slid up beside me. “They’ll be coming. We need to move quickly.”

  As if his words were prophetic, a series of raised voices rose from the darkness, echoing out from the tunnels we’d just passed through. I slid my jacket aside and yanked my pistol from its holster. “Everyone get to cover!”

  We scattered, Tobin and Alberad racing for the nearest fallen stones big enough to shield them. Easton and I spread out on opposite ends of the platform and Warman dropped into a crouch beside some rubble close to the bridge. He drew his blacksmith’s hammer and gripped it in both hands, preparing to combat any who sought to cross. Cort took up position behind him, seemingly wielding nothing but his fists.

  “Auggy—” I called

  “I’m trying!” he screamed, yanking free the first tree sample. “I’ll figure it out. I just need a little time.”

  My headlamp barely extended across the cistern, but it was enough to glimpse the first figures as they emerged from the tunnels. I couldn’t discern much, but what I did see caused my heart to skip a beat. I’d seen poverty before. I’d seen drug addiction, and I’d dealt with every mental health issue under the sun. But I’d never seen anything like this.

  Cliché as it may sound, they didn’t look like people. They looked… wretched.

  Clothed in heavy layers of mismatched clothing, most of their skin was hidden, but what little flesh I glimpsed was pale and sunken, tinged with yellow and purple splotches. Rotted teeth dwelt behind cracked lips, and bloodshot eyes glared from the darkness as they moved in low crouches, their frames perpetually hunched.