Chapter 6 · Erased from History

Chapter 6: Erased from History

"Drop it, Calder."

Vance's voice cracks off the concrete behind me, and my hand closes tighter around the drive instead of opening. Little black rectangle, still warm from his jacket pocket. He must've felt it slip out somewhere between the intake chamber and here, because he's moving fast for a man his age, boots splashing through runoff that smells like rust and bleach and something underneath that, something chemical that scrapes the back of my throat.

"Drop what?" I say. "This old thing? Looks like trash to me."

"That's pack property."

"Funny. Pack property usually doesn't fall out of a man's jacket while he's sneaking around the flood tunnels at two a.m."

His jaw ticks. That's all the confirmation I need. I'm already backing toward the gear locker row, and he's already closing the gap, and neither of us is pretending this is friendly anymore. The air down here is thick enough to chew, no windows, no real ventilation, just that low electrical hum from the pump station and the drip of water finding new cracks in the concrete.

I hit the locker door first. Slam it.