I felt Garret go perfectly still beside me. Riley didn’t notice as he leaned in, peering over Wes’s shoulder. “What do we have?”
“Bank statements, photographs, bloody recordings, you name it.” Wes shook his head. “Enough dirt to blackmail him for the rest of his life, and possibly his successor’s life. According to these dates...” He squinted at the screen. “This has been going on for more than a year.”
“Perfect,” Riley breathed, though Garret didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. The soldier looked almost ill, brows drawn together and mouth set in a grim line. “Where are they?” Riley continued.
“Aisle 147, section G-36,” Wes muttered after a short pause. “That’s all it says.”
Riley nodded and straightened. “We’ll figure it out when we get there,” he said, heading toward the door. “Right now, we’re looking for aisle 147. Let’s find that evidence and get the hell out of here.”
“I’ll wait here,” Wes volunteered, leaning back in the chair as Riley frowned at him. “Someone has to keep an eye on the elevator hallway,” he explained. “If Talon comes bursting through those doors, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Uh-huh.” Riley raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re not staying behind to look at all the juicy blackmail Talon has on everyone?”
“Of course not, mate.” Wes smiled evilly. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Fine, anarchist. You have fun with that.” The other sighed and turned to us. “Ember, St. George, let’s go.”
We slipped back into the massive warehouse, following Riley through shadowy aisles and corridors, shelves overflowing with boxes, crates, containers and sometimes weird, random crap. An ancient bicycle sat on one of the shelves, handlebars bent at an odd angle. A suit jacket hung in plastic from a wire hanger, suspicious dark blots staining the collar and sleeves. A huge diamond necklace sat on a mannequin bust, dozens of jewels sparkling in the dim light. I resisted the temptation to take the shiny and kept moving.
Through it all, the warehouse appeared eerily empty. We met no resistance, ran into no one else moving through the aisles and around corners. And maybe I was looking for problems that weren’t there, but I started to think that maybe Garret was right. Where were the other employees, those assistants that Riley had met before? They had to be here somewhere; we’d knocked out one of them when he was leaving the Vault. For that matter, where was this mysterious boss man, the one in charge of this massive place? Was he out to lunch? Or did he just stay down here forever, living below the library like a real-life Phantom of the Opera?
“Here it is,” Riley muttered, turning down one of the long corridors. “Aisle 147. The evidence against the Patriarch should be around here...” He stopped and gazed down the aisle, staring at the boxes and containers looming twenty feet overhead. “Somewhere.”
I looked closer at the shelves, seeing letters and numbers stickered along the edges, just like the library. “A-14,” I read, and glanced at the boys. “The shelves are numbered, too,” I called, making them turn. “That’s how we can find the evidence. What are we looking for again, Riley? G...something?”
A low chuckle echoed out of the darkness. “G-36 is the shelf you want,” said a voice behind me, as a massive ripple of power washed into the aisle. A figure stepped into view, seeming to come from nowhere: an old man with silver hair, tiny gold glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. He folded his hands and smiled at us like a doting grandfather, as his shadow filled the narrow space and stretched all the way to the ceiling. “The evidence on the Patriarch is all there,” the old man said, and though his voice was quiet, it seemed to vibrate through the concrete floor. “How you expect to get it past me is the problem.”
My dragon recoiled with a hiss of terror, cringing back as two ancient, silvery-blue eyes fixed on me. For a moment, I couldn’t move, but Garret had his gun drawn in the space of a blink, bringing his weapon level with the man’s face.
The old man smiled.
With frightening speed, he darted in, grabbed the wrist that held the gun and wrenched it behind Garret’s back. Stunned, the soldier tried to fight, throwing an elbow back at the old man’s skull. It connected solidly with his temple, but his captor simply scowled in annoyance. A thin, wrinkled hand clamped around Garret’s throat, wrenching his head back, and the soldier gagged, gasping for air as bony fingers began to close like a vise. I let out a terrified cry and tensed to lunge.
“Don’t kill him!”