Chapter 4 - The Secrets of the Earth
The task of lowering a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound injured man down a six-foot vertical ladder into a subterranean room required every ounce of strength Valerie and Marcus possessed.
By the time Brennan was laid out on the wool blankets spread across the earthen floor, Marcus was panting violently, leaning against the wooden support posts.
"I have to leave," Marcus said, checking his watch with trembling hands. "My dispatcher is calling my radio. If I don't report back to the central hub in fifteen minutes, they'll flag my vehicle as stolen."
"Leave the medical bag," Valerie ordered, kneeling beside Brennan’s towering form. She uncapped the rubbing alcohol and pulled out heavy trauma shears. "What do I need to do?"
"Keep pressure on the packing," Marcus said quickly, dumping a stack of pressure dressings, antibiotics, and IV bags onto the small desk. "I gave him a heavy dose of morphine and a broad-spectrum antibiotic. If his fever spikes above 103, pack his neck with ice. I'll try to come back tomorrow night with fresh blood bags."
"Go," Valerie said, cutting away the bloody remnants of Brennan's bespoke silk shirt. "Don't use this route again tonight."
Marcus scrambled up the ladder, pulled the hatch closed, and left Valerie alone in the deep silence of her underground sanctuary.
The space smelled immediately of iron and blood.
Valerie leaned over the dangerous man lying on her floor. Now that his tailored suit was removed, she could see the full extent of his physical reality. His chest and shoulders were covered in intricate, dark tattoos—symbols of old-world syndicate heraldry intertwined with tactical scars from knife wounds and bullet grazes. Across his left flank was a jagged, raw bullet entrance wound, caked in dark, coagulated blood.
She poured rubbing alcohol directly over her gloved hands and began to clean the wound.
Brennan didn't scream, but his entire body went rigid as iron, a low, murderous growl escaping his throat. His hands clenched into massive fists, his knuckles turning white against the dirt floor.
"Hold still," Valerie murmured, her voice steady and calm, the same tone she used to use when tending to her father after long, grueling days at the corporation. "You've survived the bullet. Don't die of infection."
For three hours, as the clock ticked toward 5:00 a.m., Valerie worked endlessly. She cleaned the deep tissue tear, replaced the blood-soaked packing with sterile gauze, and rigged an IV bag from a hook on the ceiling beam, inserting the needle into a thick vein in his forearm with surgical precision she had practiced during her years caring for her dying mother.
As she wiped the sweat and blood from his pale forehead with a damp cloth, she noticed a faint silver chain tucked beneath his neck. Attached to it was a heavy silver signet ring engraved with a crest: a wolf crowned with iron.
The mark of the Vance family.
Suddenly, Brennan’s hand shot up again, but this time he didn't grab her wrist. His fingers tangled gently into the fabric of her sleeve, pulling her down an inch closer.
"Raymond..." he muttered in a low, delirious feverish haze. "Raymond... the files..."
Valerie’s breath caught in her throat.
May you like
She froze, staring down at his pale, sweat-streaked face. "What did you say?" she whispered.
"The ledger..." Brennan groaned, his head tossing to the side as the fever burned through him. "Cross... didn't take the money... my father... set the fire..."
