Page 39 of Avenging Angel

Squeezing my arms around his waist, kissing his cheek, and stepping back, I say, “Our days are numbered, Owen. I have no control over that. But I promise that we’ll be as safe as we can and make the ones we have left count for something. Danger is part of our profession, but stupidity is not.”

Rather than tell him that I empathize with his plight when the roles are reversed, I tell him I pray for him every night before I go to bed. I have done so since the day he left home for the Army. Even though he’s a highly-competent FBI agent, I always knew there might be a phone call in the middle of the night; the kind of acall no family member ever wants to get. However, I won’t ever ask him to stop doing what he loves, and neither will he ask me to give up my mission. It’s why he’s letting me go without much of a fight.

It takes Angel and me nearly an hour to reach the mines ten miles to our west as we traverse dirt roads and trails to get there. Upon our arrival, we’re greeted by a ten-foot electrified chain-link fence with numerous signs warning us to keep out and that trespassers can face a penalty of up to $50,000 and jail time.

I use the comm device in my ear to relay our arrival. “We’re here.”

Expecting my brother to be the one to reply, I’m surprised when it’s Scott. “Roger that. Stick to the path you’ve chosen. If anything goes wrong, we should know exactly where to find you. Owen is currently tracking your location. Once you’re inside the tunnels, it won’t be long before there’s enough earth and rock overhead to block the signal, and we’ll lose comms.”

“Copy,” Angel replies for us both.

We dismount the ATVs and make our way along the fence, which has angled extensions along the top to prevent anyone from climbing over. We walk about a hundred yards until we come to a spot where the chain-link has been cut. Angel turns on his headlamp and inspects the opening where the galvanized steel has been snipped with cutters strong enough to handle high-tensile wire.

“This is where the man in the photo entered. If you notice here, you’ll see that….”

“That the cuts are fresh because the exposed steel is still bright and hasn’t started oxidizing,” I say.

Angel looks at me with an expression that suggests he’s impressed with my assessment. “That’s correct. The rest of the fence has been exposed to the elements for close to twenty years. Those cut edges haven’t.”

I squat down and shine my light on the snow-covered ground, which is only an inch thick here. Pointing toward the path that leads to the entrance, I add, “You’ll also notice that there aren’t any boot prints in the fresh snow, but there are….”

“Indentations where the older prints were filled in,” Angel says. “That means someone came through before the last snowfall.”

Owen’s voice comes through the line. “Are they really finishing each other’s sentences already?”

Vinny replies, “Yep, and it’s not the first time. It’s cute, right?”

My brother grunts. “That’s one word for it.”

“We’re going in,” I say to diffuse the side conversation.

“Be careful,” Scott says, joining in. “Stay vigilant.”

I draw my weapon and keep it in the low-ready position, turning my head slowly from left to right to allow the light from my headlamp to illuminate the tunnel walls. “Wilco,” I say, using the term my brother taught me from his military days that means “will comply.”

Inside the tunnel, there are more boot prints in the dirt. Angel removes his phone to snap a picture, placing his Glock 22 beside one of them for size reference. With the gun being just shy of eight inches long, he says, “I’d say it’s roughly a size eleven boot.”

Squatting down to get a closer look, I notice deep lugs in the tread and a triangle pattern in the heel. “How fitting. It almost resembles the DAG logo.”

“Purely coincidence, I’m sure,” Angel replies. “It’s the tread from a Lowa Renegade. It’s a pricey but very comfortable hiking boot. I have a pair myself and rarely go hiking without them.”

“So, we’re looking for someone with expensive taste. I guess that takes Brad out of the running,” I joke.

“It’s an expensive boot for sure, but a quality investment. I wouldn’t discount him just yet.”

We walk a little farther and see the remnants of the cave-in along with three small crosses where the day hikers lost their lives. Rocks of all sizes line the tunnel walls as a reminder that our situation is just as precarious. I relay our position to the team back at the cabin. “The entrance has been cleared.”

A quarter of a mile in, Owen’s voice comes through broken and unreadable. “Southern Kn… on… flight… here… hours….”

“Say again. I repeat, say again.”

“We’re under fifty feet of solid rock, Daisy. We’re on our own from here.”

I huff. “Do you speak garble? I want to know what my brother was saying.”

Continuing slowly down the path, Angel says, “In fact, I do. The Southern Knights are on a flight and will be here in X number of hours. My guess is five or six since they’re coming from Charleston.”

We walk a little farther, stepping over more debris that has shaken loose over the years. “Angel, why did you slip a tracker into Bennett’s suit coat before he left? Don’t you trust him? After all, you worked for the same agency.”