Miles closed the email and started his car, pulling out of the garage with his mind fully focused on the investigation ahead. The drive to the airport passed in a blur of anticipation and analytical thinking, as he prepared for an unusual excursion into the field.
CHAPTER FIVE
The basement workshop occupied what had once been a storage room in the old warehouse, its concrete walls sweating with moisture from the bay air. Fluorescent work lights hung from makeshift supports, casting harsh shadows across the cramped space. They were run from a small generator that hummed away in the far corner—the only action this place had seen in more than twenty-five years. The air carried the acrid smell of chemical solutions mixed with the metallic tang of heated metal.
A figure moved through the space with practiced efficiency, each step deliberate and purposeful. This makeshift workshop represented months of careful preparation, every piece of equipment selected for its specific function in the delicate process of gold leaf preparation. A small electric furnace dominated one corner of the room, also running from the generator, its heating elements glowing orange as they maintained the precise temperature needed to work with precious metals. Beside it, a compact ventilation system hummed quietly, drawing fumes through a series of filters before exhausting them through a concealed vent. It had taken weeks to put the setup together but it had been worth it.
A workbench stretched along the far wall, its surface covered with an array of tools. Small crucibles sat in neat rows, their ceramic surfaces blackened from repeated heating cycles. Precision scales capable of measuring to the milligram occupied one end of the bench, while bottles of chemical solutions lined a shelf above, each labeled with careful handwriting that detailed their contents and concentrations.
The figure picked up a small ingot of pure gold, feeling its weight in his palm. Twenty-four karat, 99.9% pure, obtainedthrough careful purchases from dealers who asked no questions about quantity or intended use. They were shocked at how simple it had been to find such people. The metal felt warm, as if it contained some internal energy that responded to human touch. But they knew better than to romanticize the material. Gold was merely a tool, a means to an end that served a higher purpose.
The preparation process began with heating the ingot in the small furnace, watching through protective eyewear as the metal gradually transformed from solid to liquid. The temperature had to be precise—too low and the gold wouldn't achieve proper malleability, too high and it would become difficult to work with. The figure monitored the digital readout carefully, adjusting the settings with the patience of someone who understood that perfection required time.
While the gold heated, the figure prepared the other materials needed for the leaf-making process. A small rolling mill sat ready on the workbench, its steel rollers polished to mirror brightness. Beside it, a collection of hammers of varying weights waited to be used in the initial flattening process. The transformation from molten metal to paper-thin sheets required multiple stages, each one demanding absolute precision.
Behind them, photographs covered nearly every inch of the concrete wall. Images torn from newspapers and printed from internet searches. They had created a gallery of San Francisco's wealthy elite, but no one thatreallystood out. No, these were people who wouldn’t really be missed, deaths that wouldn’t cause too much of a stir butjust enoughto get noticed. Real estate developers, investment bankers, tech executives, politicians—faces that represented the corruption he'd been trained to recognize.
The Elementalist’s teachings instructed all to see beyond surface appearances, to understand how these people used their wealth to poison society from within.
The figure studied the wall as the furnace completed its heating cycle, his eyes moving from one photograph to another. Rebecca Thornfield smiled from her gallery opening, surrounded by art that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Patricia Vance cut a ribbon at a development project, her smile radiant as she celebrated the displacement of families who could no longer afford to live in their own neighborhood. And there were several others, people who had yet to know their artist’s touch.
Each photograph had been selected according to the Elementalist's teachings about humanity's relationship with precious metals. Gold represented the deepest corruption, the transformation of something beautiful into an instrument of greed and exploitation. For thousands of years, humans had killed for gold, had enslaved others to mine it. So many people had allowed their most base instincts to be governed by the pursuit of its gleaming surface.
The furnace chimed softly, indicating that the gold had reached optimal temperature. The figure removed the crucible with ceramic-coated tongs, pouring the molten metal into a prepared mold that would create a small ingot suitable for the rolling process. The liquid gold flowed like honey, its surface reflecting the harsh work lights as it settled into its new shape.
While the gold cooled, they reviewed the notes from the Elementalist's most recent teachings. The lessons had been clear about gold's symbolic importance in their mission. Unlike the earlier elements—hydrogen, helium, lithium—gold represented humanity's willingness to sacrifice anything for material wealth. It was the element that had driven exploration, conquest, and the subjugation of entire civilizations. Its beauty was inseparablefrom the ugliness of human nature it revealed. They had been flattered and privileged to be chosen for this cycle, what he was referring to as thegolden cycle.
The cooling process took exactly twelve minutes, a timing the figure had perfected through months of practice. When the metal had solidified but retained enough warmth to remain workable, it was transferred to the rolling mill. The first pass through the machine reduced the thickness by half, the gold stretching and flattening under the pressure of the steel rollers.
After an hour of careful work, the gold had been transformed into sheets thin enough to tear with gentle pressure. But this was only the beginning of the leaf-making process. The sheets had to be cut into precise squares, then placed between layers of specially prepared paper for the final beating stage that would reduce them to the gossamer thinness required for his work.
They selected a hammer with a perfectly balanced weight, its head polished smooth; they did not want to mark or mar the gold. The beating process required rhythm and control, each strike delivered with exactly the right force to thin the metal without tearing it. Too little pressure and the gold wouldn't achieve proper thinness. Too much and hours of careful preparation would be ruined in an instant.
They completed the hammer strikes, checking the gold's thickness with a calibrated gauge. The metal was approaching the proper thinness for application, its surface taking on the translucent quality that made gold leaf so remarkable. In this state, it was fragile beyond belief, capable of being destroyed by a careless breath or an unsteady hand.
The irony wasn't lost on them. The same material that humans had killed for throughout history became almost impossibly delicate when refined to its purest form. It was a perfect metaphor for the corruption the Elementalist had taught him to recognize—something that appeared valuable andbeautiful on the surface, but became fragile and ultimately meaningless when subjected to careful examination.
The figure carefully transferred the completed gold leaf to storage containers lined with tissue paper, each sheet separated and protected from contact with air or moisture. The material would remain stable for weeks if properly stored, though he had no intention of waiting that long.
The workshop fell quiet except for the hum of the ventilation system. The figure cleaned the tools with methodical precision, returning each implement to its designated place. The Elementalist had taught them that discipline in small matters led to success in larger endeavors. Every aspect of their mission required the same attention to detail, the same commitment to perfection.
As they prepared to leave the workshop, the figure took one final look at the photographs covering the wall. Another would be turned to gold soon, like a plot element from a demented fairytale. The golden cycle was entering its next phase, and every step brought him closer to the moment when San Francisco—and likely the world beyond—might understand the power of the work so many people had been putting together for years.
CHAPTER SIX
Miles stepped into the controlled chaos of San Francisco International Airport with his carry-on bag slung over his shoulder and his laptop case clutched in his free hand. The terminal stretched out before him in a maze of gates, shops, and restaurants, filled with travelers hurrying to catch connections or waiting in clusters around charging stations. Overhead announcements echoed through the space in multiple languages while the constant hum of conversation created a white noise backdrop. For Miles, someone who enjoyed traveling, it was a welcome and almost refreshing sight.
He paused near the gate, scanning the faces of people waiting in the terminal seating area. He'd never met Agent Stone in person, had only seen her official FBI photograph and heard Hayes describe her as direct and experienced. But he had no idea what she actually looked like or how to spot her among the crowd of travelers.
"Dr. Sterling?"
Miles turned toward the mention of his name and found himself facing a woman in her mid-thirties. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her sharp green eyes seemed to take in everything around them. She wore dark jeans and a black blazer that hung loose enough to conceal whatever weapon she carried, and she moved with the confident posture of someone accustomed to commanding situations.
"Agent Stone," Miles said, extending his hand. "Thank you for picking me up."
Victoria Stone's handshake was firm and brief, her grip conveying both strength and efficiency. "Call me Vic. And you're Miles, right? Hayes suggested you might prefer that to Doctor."
"That's right." Miles studied her face, noting the way her eyes continued to scan their surroundings even as she spoke to him. There was an alertness about her that spoke of years spent in situations where attention to detail could mean the difference between life and death.
