“Stolen from a bank, I’d wager,” Mildred said, amused by the concept of somebody raiding a bank to take the doors and leave the money behind. Dollar bills were useless these days. They didn’t burn hot enough to help start a campfire, and were way too rough to use in the latrine.
“Where is the black powder and shot for the wall cannons?” Krysty asked, hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me the ville is completely unarmed.”
“There are four more places like this spaced along the outer wall,” Ryan explained, pounding on the walls. “Shot is too heavy to move fast. You have to keep it close to the cannons.”
“What do you think, John?” Mildred asked, rapping the steel door with a knuckle.
“Give it a try,” J.B. said hesitantly, and started running his hands over the door. No warm spots. Then he swept it with his compass. The needle never wavered. No mag fields. Even better. The rest of his tools were in his backpack, rusting at the bottom of the harbor. Saltwater would ruin his collection of munitions, and he had no idea what it would do to his prized timing pencils. The C-4 should be okay, but everything else was most likely dissolving while they waited for daylight.
Placing his ear to the cool metal, J.B. held his breath as he slowly turned the dial listening for any clicks. Having seen this before, the companions stayed still and made as little noise as possible. Sometimes the doors opened easily, but that was only because of something on the other side that wanted out.
“Couldn’t try this last time,” Ryan whispered to Krysty. “Guards wouldn’t leave us alone.”
“The original ten-second tour,” Doc added softly. “Then a most improprietous bum’s rush.”
Smiling in satisfaction, J.B. leaned away from the bank door and worked the lever. There was a ratcheting sound of moving gears, then the heavy thud of a big lock disengaging.
“Anything you can’t open?” Dean asked.
“Not yet,” he answered, sliding the shotgun off his shoulder and snicking off the safety. “Wanna take cover in the next room?”
“Here is good. Open it,” Ryan said forcibly.
Keeping the scattergun in his grip, J.B. tried pulling the door open, then pushing, but it refused to budge. Chewing a lip, the wiry man attempted to shove it sideways, and the massive portal slid easily on greased tracks out of sight into the wall. Beyond was dark tunnel that angled into the ground. The floor was metal grating, the smooth concrete sides rising to curve overhead.
“Blasted sewer pipe,” Doc rumbled.
“Heads straight for the palace,” Krysty said, sniffing the air. There was no smell of sewage. “Vault, my ass. It’s the baron’s secret entrance to the armory.”
“Could be,” Ryan agreed, inspecting the walls and ceiling with the lantern. In the tight confines of the tunnel, the meager light was magnified to a much brighter level. “Single file, one-yard spread. I’m on point, Jak cover the rear.”
As the companions entered the tunnel, Jak rolled over the barrel of spare blaster parts and placed it directly in front of the bank door, hopefully forcing it to stay open. Checking the load on his blaster, the teenager then followed the rest into the predark sewer.
Walking along, their steps rapping on the grating, making stealth impossible. The air was stale and slightly cold. Side openings for feeder pipes had been cemented shut, water trickling through tiny cracks and going down under the flooring. Every ten yards or so, there were stacked bricks bracing the arched ceiling, moss edging the brick as it followed the path of the descending moisture.
“Must be under a stream,” Dean suggested.
“Or the fountain,” Mildred countered.
A gentle curve in the tunnel exposed stairs going up, and Ryan automatically stopped. The place was perfect for a booby trap. He looked hard at the darkness and there was something different; the moss lining the bricks here was a lighter shade than the rest. Testing it with a finger, he found it was dry and long dead. Easing the panga from its sheath, he gingerly pried away a piece and exposed a narrow slit.
“Trap,” he said softly.