“I don't know. The entrance was supposed to be closed permanently.”
“Then we are not sending anyone inside until the authorities assess it.”
Hargrove's voice rose.
“You don't understand. If they reach the chamber first, they'll destroy the key.”
“Who is they?”
“Derek. Vale. And whoever is directing the operation.”
“The mayor?”
“I can't prove that.”
Riker leaned forward.
“Can you prove Derek is involved?”
“I have his signature on the original logistics orders. I have emails showing that his company received payment for equipment that was never delivered. I have records showing that Martin Vale requested access to the station under a false maintenance designation.”
“Where is the archive?”
Hargrove hesitated again.
Then he said, “I have a copy stored outside the city. But the original key is in the chamber, and the archive cannot be authenticated without it.”
“Why not send the copy to the sheriff?”
“Because the copy is encrypted, and the authentication record is tied to the original key. Without it, anyone could claim the files were fabricated.”
Riker understood.
The evidence existed.
But the evidence had been designed so that the person who possessed it could not simply publish the contents without establishing that the records were authentic.
That was a sensible security measure under ordinary circumstances.
Under these circumstances, it had become a dangerous vulnerability.
“Mr. Hargrove,” Riker said, “I need you to contact Sheriff Brooks directly. Give her the archive location, the technical details, and everything you can prove. Do not come to the factory. Do not approach the station. Do not try to retrieve the key yourself.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because they're outside my building.”
Riker stood.
“Where are you?”
“I told you, I can't say.”
“Then give me a landmark.”
Hargrove's breathing grew rapid.
“I can hear them downstairs.”
“Daniel, listen to me. If you are in immediate danger, contact emergency services if you can do so safely. Tell them your location. Do not confront anyone.”
“They're coming up.”
A loud crash sounded through the phone.
Hargrove gasped.
Then another voice spoke in the background.
“Daniel? We know you're there.”
The call went dead.
Riker stared at the screen.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he picked up the radio.
“Sheriff Brooks, this is Riker Cross. I have a credible report that Daniel Hargrove is in immediate danger. I believe someone has located him.”
The sheriff responded almost immediately.
“Do you have his location?”
“No. The call disconnected before he could provide it.”
“Did he give you any identifying details?”
“He mentioned that the west service chamber beneath the railway bridge contains the original Project Lantern key. He also said he has an encrypted archive that could prove the municipal infrastructure records were falsified.”
The sheriff was silent.
Then she said, “I need you to send me your notes immediately.”
“I will.”
“Do not approach the bridge.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Riker.”
“I heard you.”
The sheriff ended the call.
Riker looked toward the clubhouse entrance.
Beyond it, the distant rumble of motorcycles continued to grow.
Eight hundred engines.
A missing woman.
A missing engineer.
A hidden key.
And a secret that might have been buried beneath the city long before anyone realized the danger.
Riker took a deep breath.
The first part of the night had been about surviving an ambush.
The next part would be about preventing a city from becoming the victim of a crime disguised as an accident.
And somewhere between the abandoned factory and the reservoir, the truth was waiting for someone brave enough to find it.
At 8:46 p.m., Sheriff Brooks called an emergency briefing at the county operations center.
The meeting included representatives from the sheriff's office, the county prosecutor, the municipal utility, and the regional emergency management agency. A state investigator joined by telephone. The utility sent two engineers who had worked on the reservoir's emergency power system.
Riker was not invited.
He understood why.
He was a potential witness, the leader of a group publicly associated with the suspected confrontation, and a man who had already received a threatening call from someone connected to the investigation. Allowing him into the briefing could compromise the chain of evidence or create the appearance that law enforcement was coordinating with a private organization.
So he remained at the clubhouse, forwarding every document he possessed and waiting for the next development.
Moose sat across from him.
“Do you think Hargrove is still alive?”
Riker looked at the telephone.
“I think we have to behave as though he is.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It's the only answer that matters until we know more.”
Moose rubbed his face.
“I hate this.”
“So do I.”
“No. I mean the waiting. The sitting around while someone else decides whether a man lives or dies.”
Riker understood.
He had spent years in situations where the difference between action and inaction could be measured in seconds. Waiting for information had often felt like an insult to the people in danger.
But experience had taught him that the wrong action could turn a rescue into another casualty report.
He glanced at the map.
The west service chamber beneath the railway bridge was marked with a red circle.
The reservoir was marked with another.
The abandoned factory sat between them.
Three locations.
One secret.
And a series of people who seemed willing to do almost anything to prevent the truth from emerging.
At 9:03 p.m., the first official update arrived.
Sheriff Brooks reported that investigators had located a vehicle associated with Daniel Hargrove near a small roadside motel outside the city. The room registered to him had been paid for in cash, and the receptionist remembered seeing a man matching his description earlier that evening.
The man had left in a hurry.
He had not said where he was going.
A housekeeping employee had discovered that the room's telephone had been removed from the wall and placed inside a drawer.
There was no sign of a struggle.
But there was a note beneath the mattress.
It contained three words.
THE LIGHTS ARE LIES.
Riker read the message twice.
He did not know whether Hargrove had written it, whether it referred to the emergency power system, or whether it was intended as a warning about the entire Project Lantern operation.
The sheriff did not speculate.
She simply reported that investigators were attempting to establish the engineer's last known movements and had requested assistance from the state police.
At 9:19 p.m., another development followed.
The utility confirmed that the communication failure at the emergency power facility had not been caused by a generator malfunction.
A communications cabinet had been accessed using a credential assigned to a Northstar contractor.
The cabinet contained a network interface connected to the monitoring system. The interface had been disconnected, then reconnected several minutes later.
No equipment had been removed.
No immediate threat to the water supply had been identified.
But the access had not been authorized by the utility's control room.
Someone had deliberately interrupted the monitoring connection.
That did not prove an attempt to sabotage the reservoir.
It did establish that someone had interfered with a system responsible for reporting the status of critical equipment.
The distinction mattered.
So did the timing.
The interruption had occurred shortly before the mayor's office issued its statement about a possible infrastructure threat.
Riker sent the information to Moose.
Moose read it and shook his head.
“They knew the system would go down.”
“Or they knew how to make it look as though it had.”
“And the mayor was ready with a statement.”
“Yes.”
“That's not a coincidence.”
“Maybe not. But we still need evidence connecting the people who interfered with the cabinet to the people who prepared the statement.”
Moose leaned back.