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The door hung slightly open. Another calculated detail, she suspected. Everything about this place felt staged, like a theater set designed to tell a specific story.
"Watch the threshold," Finn whispered as they entered, weapons ready.
The workshop's interior was meticulously organized. Tools hung on pegboards in careful arrangements—hammers, saws, wrenches, each item aligned with precision. Workbenches lined the walls, their surfaces clean except for a thin layer of sawdust that looked almost deliberately placed. The concrete floor, however, had been swept recently.
"Look at these tools," Finn said softly, examining the pegboard. "They're all new. High-end brands, too."
Sheila nodded. Peter Whitman might dress this place up to look abandoned, but he spent money where it mattered. Just like the night vision goggles—he invested in quality tools for his work.
Whatever that work might be.
Their flashlight beams caught more details as they moved deeper into the space. A generator hummed softly in one corner, connected to what looked like a sophisticated ventilation system. Metal shelving units held supplies that seemed out of place in a workshop—rope, climbing gear, first aid equipment.
"The floor," Finn said suddenly. "Something's off about it."
Sheila studied the concrete. At first glance, it looked ordinary—old, stained, cracked in places. But the cracks formed too perfect a pattern, like lines on a map.
"It's been poured in sections," she said. "Recently."
They began a systematic search, checking every corner, every shadow. The trapdoor had to be here somewhere, but Peter would have hidden it carefully. A man with military engineering experience would know how to conceal an entrance.
A workbench caught Sheila's attention. Unlike the others, which were bolted to the walls, this one stood free in the center of the space. Its surface held a half-finished woodworking project—some kind of decorative cross, she realized with a chill.
"The floor under this," she said. "Help me move it."
Together, they carefully slid the workbench aside. The concrete beneath looked identical to the rest of the floor—same color, same texture, same deliberate stains. But something about the dimensions nagged at her.
Finn was already measuring with his eyes. "I don't know about you, but that looks like the right size for a trapdoor if you ask me."
"But how would it open?" Sheila ran her fingers along the edges of the section, feeling for seams. Nothing. The concrete was seamless, perfectly matched to the surrounding floor.
A sound echoed from somewhere below—maybe a voice, maybe just settling stone. But it galvanized them both.
"There has to be a mechanism," Finn said, examining the nearby walls. "A switch, a lever, something."
Sheila turned slowly, taking in the whole space. If she were designing this, where would she hide the controls? Somewhere accessible but not obvious. Somewhere that looked natural in a workshop.
Her eyes fell on the pegboard with its carefully arranged tools. One hammer hung slightly off-center, disrupting the otherwise perfect alignment.
"No way," she muttered, reaching for it. "It couldn't be that simple."
But when she grasped the handle, she felt the subtle click of a mechanism engaging. The hammer was fixed in place, more like a lever than a tool.
She met Finn's eyes. He nodded, weapon ready.
Sheila took a deep breath and pulled the hammer down.
The hammer moved with well-oiled precision, and a soft hydraulic hiss filled the workshop. At first, nothing visible happened. Then, with glacial slowness, the concrete section began to rise on one end, revealing a dark space beneath.
The engineering was impressive—counterweights and springs working in perfect balance, allowing the heavy concrete panel to lift smoothly despite its weight. As it rose, Sheila saw why they hadn't found any seams: the edges were beveled, designed to sit flush with the surrounding floor when closed.
"Military tech," Finn whispered. "High-end. This isn't something you buy at Home Depot."
The panel stopped at a forty-five-degree angle, locked in place by some hidden mechanism. Steel stairs descended into darkness, their surfaces treated to prevent reflection. A soft current of air carried mineral scents from below—the unmistakable breath of the mines.
Sheila played her flashlight beam down the stairs. They curved slightly, preventing her from seeing the bottom. The walls were lined with some kind of acoustic dampening material, explaining why they hadn't heard more sounds from below.
"This isn't just an entrance," she said quietly. "It's an airlock. Look at the seals around the edges."