She appeared frightened but conscious.
Beside her stood a man whose face was partially outside the frame.
His right hand rested on the back of her chair.
A silver ring gleamed on his finger.
Riker stared at the photograph.
The timestamp indicated that the image had been taken only minutes earlier.
Moose read the message over his shoulder.
“Midnight,” he whispered.
Riker looked at the clock.
11:01 p.m.
Fifty-nine minutes.
The anonymous sender had not provided a location.
There was no demand for money.
No instruction to contact the police.
No explanation of how the sender knew about the key or Maria's disappearance.
It could have been a genuine warning.
It could have been a trap designed to lure Riker toward the station.
It could have been an attempt to provoke the hundreds of riders gathered across the region into descending on the industrial district.
The sender had given them a deadline and a photograph of a frightened woman.
That was enough to make every minute feel unbearable.
Riker forwarded the message to Sheriff Brooks.
Then he called her.
“Have you seen the latest email?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it's genuine?”
“I believe the photograph needs to be authenticated immediately. We are comparing the room with the locations already identified.”
“Can you determine where she is?”
“Not yet.”
“The deadline is midnight.”
“I am aware.”
Riker stood.
“Then we need to move.”
The sheriff's voice became firm.
“We are moving. We have officers at the station, investigators at the factory perimeter, and a technical team assessing the service chamber. We are coordinating with the utility and the state authorities.”
“What about the warehouse where Darren's vehicle was found?”
“Units are checking it now.”
“What if the photograph was taken somewhere else?”
“Then we will identify the location.”
Riker pressed his fingers against his forehead.
“Sheriff, somebody is telling us that a woman will disappear and evidence will be destroyed in less than an hour.”
“I know.”
“Then what happens if we run out of time?”
The sheriff paused.
When she answered, her voice was quieter.
“Then we will have to deal with the consequences of what we could not prevent. But we are not going to create additional victims by rushing into a building without knowing what is inside.”
Riker knew she was right.
He hated that she was right.
The call ended.
He returned to the map and placed the photograph beside the drawing Leo had made.
The metal box.
The lantern symbol.
The words about the original key.
The photograph of Maria.
He studied the room behind her.
A concrete wall.
A narrow window.
A fluorescent light.
A pipe running along the ceiling.
At the far edge of the image, a faded yellow stripe crossed the floor.
Riker enlarged the photograph.
The stripe was not paint.
It appeared to be a raised marking, the kind used in industrial facilities to indicate a walkway or a restricted zone.
Beside it was a small rectangular sign.
Most of the lettering was hidden.
But one word remained visible.
PUMP.
Riker looked up.
The room might be inside the old pumping station.
Or it might be in a building associated with the reservoir.
He forwarded the enlarged image to Sheriff Brooks with the observation.
Then he called Moose.
“Get the publicly available building plans for the old pumping station and the emergency power facility. Send them to the sheriff. Do not send anyone to either location.”
Moose immediately began working.
Within minutes, he found a set of historical plans.
The old pumping station contained a basement workshop, a control room, and a narrow equipment corridor.
A yellow floor marking ran through the workshop.
The photograph might have been taken there.
But the plans were decades old, and the facility had been modified several times.
Riker did not treat the resemblance as proof.
He treated it as a lead.
He sent the plans to Sheriff Brooks.
At 11:23 p.m., she replied that investigators were checking the pumping station's current layout and access logs.
At 11:31 p.m., the utility reported that an unauthorized credential had been used to open a service gate near the reservoir.
At 11:36 p.m., a security camera recorded a dark vehicle entering the restricted area.
At 11:41 p.m., the vehicle left.
No one could determine whether anyone had entered or exited the pumping station during that interval.
The camera had captured only the vehicle's headlights and rear lights.
The plate was obscured by mud.
Riker read the report and felt the pieces closing around him.
The people behind Project Lantern were moving.
They were not waiting for midnight.
They were preparing for it.
At 11:47 p.m., Sheriff Brooks called.
“We have a possible location.”
“Where?”
“The old pumping station workshop.”
“Is Maria there?”
“We don't know.”
“Can you enter?”
“We have obtained emergency authorization to inspect the relevant areas. A technical team is checking the building for structural hazards and electrical risks.”
Riker looked at the clock.
Thirteen minutes.
“Sheriff, the message says the key will be destroyed at midnight.”
“I know.”
“Can the team reach the workshop in time?”
“We are trying.”
Riker said nothing.
The sheriff continued.
“I need you to stay at the clubhouse. I cannot have hundreds of motorcycles converging on the reservoir.”
“I won't send them.”
“Thank you.”
The call ended.
Riker walked into the main room.
Every conversation stopped when the riders saw his expression.
“We have a possible location for Maria,” he said. “The sheriff is sending a team to investigate. We are not going there.”
A man near the back stood.
“What if she needs help?”
“Then the people trained and authorized to enter that facility will help her.”
“What if they're too late?”
Riker looked at him.
“Then we will have to live with the fact that we could not control every part of this situation. But we will not make it worse by creating a second emergency.”
The man sat down.
Riker looked around the room.
“I know you're angry. I know you want to do something. So do I. But if the other side wants eight hundred motorcycles on the reservoir road at midnight, we are not giving them what they want.”
Silence followed.
Then Walter Briggs stood.
“You heard him. Nobody moves.”
One by one, the riders nodded.
Outside, the engines remained silent.
The brotherhood waited.
At 11:56 p.m., the sheriff sent a message.
TEAM ENTERING THE PUMPING STATION.
At 11:58 p.m., another message arrived.
WORKSHOP EMPTY. SEARCH CONTINUES.
At 11:59 p.m., Riker received a call from an unknown number.
He answered.
A woman's voice whispered through the speaker.
“Mr. Cross?”
“Maria?”
“Yes.”
Riker stood so quickly that his chair fell backward.
“Where are you?”
“I don't know. They moved me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“My wrists. I think my shoulder is bruised.”
“Can you see anything around you?”
“There's water. I can hear it running.”
Riker glanced toward the map.
“Are you inside a building?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe it?”
Maria began to speak, but a door slammed somewhere nearby.
A man shouted.
She gasped.
“Listen to me,” she whispered. “The original key isn't in the chamber anymore.”
“Where is it?”
“Leo has—”
The line crackled.
“Maria?”
“They're coming back.”
“Maria, tell me where you are.”
Her voice broke.
“Tell Leo I love him.”
The call ended.
Riker stared at the phone.
Moose stood beside him, his face pale.
“What did she say?”
Riker looked toward the map.
“She said the original key isn't in the chamber anymore.”
“Where is it?”
Riker remembered the drawing Leo had made.
The lantern symbol.
The words he had written beneath it.
LANTERN — ORIGINAL KEY.
Maria had begun to say something about Leo.
Riker felt the answer forming, but it did not make sense.