Chapter 11 - Below the Floorboards
The descent into the lower levels of the estate felt like dropping down through the strata of a different century. The bright modern luxury of the upper kitchens and polished marble corridors gave way to exposed brick, low vaulted ceilings, and the damp, earthy scent of old mortar and stagnant river water. Moretti led the way down a narrow concrete stairwell behind the utility pantry, his stride long and unhurried, holding a small metal-bodied flashlight that cut a sharp white beam through the gloom.
I followed close behind, the rubber soles of my maid's shoes squeaking softly against the damp concrete floor. Every breath tasted of cold iron and dust.
"The pump house sits fifty yards beyond the western foundation wall," Moretti said, his voice echoing flatly off the low brick ceiling as he paused before a heavy metal fire door stenciled with faded yellow safety paint. "It was built during the original estate expansion in the twenties. It has its own isolated power line, which is why the old analog routing terminals are still down here, disconnected from the main cloud servers."
He reached into his pocket, produced a heavy brass key ring, and slid a jagged iron key into the deadbolt with a solid, metallic click. The door swung open outward, releasing a gust of cold, chemical air that smelled faintly of ozone and heated copper wiring.
"Stay behind me," he instructed, stepping over the threshold into the dimly lit utility chamber.
I stepped in after him, my eyes adjusting to the flickering amber glow of an old CRT monitor sitting on a scarred metal workbench in the center of the room. Rows of blinking green and red indicator lights blinked rhythmically along the rack of server units mounted against the damp stone wall. But the workbench was empty. The chair was pulled back at an awkward angle, and a half-empty paper cup of cold coffee sat beside a discarded black USB drive.
Moretti walked over to the desk, his gaze dropping to the blinking cursor on the monitor. He picked up the USB drive between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over to inspect the blank plastic casing.
"They were pulling the personnel archives," I murmured, stepping closer to read the scrolling text frozen on the screen. Lines of encrypted employee identification numbers and residential addresses were highlighted in bright blue. "My file—is it on here?"
"Your file is encrypted behind three separate administrative walls," Moretti said, his voice dangerously low as he set the drive down on the metal table. "No one outside the executive board has the decryption keys. Yet here the terminal sits, unlocked and warm to the touch."
Before he could speak further, a sharp metallic clatter echoed from the drainage tunnel situated in the far corner of the room behind the main water turbine.
May you like
Moretti's body went completely rigid. In one fluid motion, he stepped in front of me, his right hand slipping inside the tailored jacket to rest against a matte-black firearm holstered beneath his arm. "Whoever is down there," he called out into the echoing dark, "the service tunnels are a dead end. Show yourself."
###
