Chapter 12 - The blood on the lock
The drive to Blackwood Ridge took two hours through winding mountain passes where the asphalt gave way to cracked dirt and overgrown pines. Daniel drove the battered pickup truck while Amanda sat in the passenger seat, furiously scrolling through digitized corporate archives on her tablet. Evelyn sat in the back, her fingers constantly turning the brass key over and over.
"Every record of Blackwood Ridge was purged from the county registry in 2002," Amanda said, her screen casting a blue glare over her pale face. "On paper, it's just state forestry land. But Richard Vance paid private property taxes on an unmarked parcel under an offshore shell company called Boreas Logistics."
"Boreas was the northern wind," Evelyn whispered, staring out at the darkening trees. "Mom used to tell me stories about flying against the northern wind. She said if you respect it, it carries you home. If you fight it, it breaks your wings."
"Evelyn, we don't have to do this tonight," Daniel said, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. "Richard is locked up. The board stripped his shares. You have your command back. The general offered you the squadron lead at Norfolk. You could walk away."
"You saw General Davis’s face when Marcus handed me this key," Evelyn said flatly. "He wasn't surprised. He was terrified. A three-star general who stood down an entire ballroom of billionaires looked terrified. I am not walking away from whatever made Jonathan Davis afraid."
The truck crested a rocky bluff, and the headlights illuminated a massive corrugated steel structure hidden deep within a natural hollow. Rust covered the curved roof, and dead creeping ivy hung like dried veins across the sliding hangar doors. A heavy chain wrapped through the center handles, secured by a solid iron padlock that looked as old as the Cold War.
They stepped out into the freezing mountain air. The wind groaned through the pine branches, sounding eerily like jet engines idling in the distance.
Evelyn walked up to the heavy padlock. Her right arm ached, the deep dressing from her gala injury throbbing with every heartbeat. She slid the brass key into the keyway. It didn't turn easily; rust and dried grease resisted.
"Let me take it," Daniel offered, stepping up with a crowbar he’d grabbed from the truck bed.
"No," Evelyn insisted. "It has to be this."
She forced the key with both hands, ignoring the white-hot pain shooting up her wounded arm. A sharp, mechanical snap echoed through the clearing. The lock popped open. But as the iron shackle swung free, Evelyn noticed something fresh: a smear of dark, half-dried fluid right around the tumblers.
She lifted her fingers to her nose. The smell of copper and iron hit her instantly.
"Someone was here," Amanda whispered, backing toward the truck. "That's fresh blood."
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Daniel raised the crowbar, his muscles tensing. "Evelyn, get behind me."
Before either of them could react, the heavy steel hangar door began to slide open from the inside on screeching, unoiled tracks, revealing a cavernous darkness that smelled of kerosene, ozone, and old secrets.
