The dull, reverberating thunder of iron portcullises dropping echoed up through the rock crevices of the canyon.
A mile down the canyon road, heavy steel gates slammed shut within the lower shaft entrances. The sound rolled between the red cliff walls like distant summer thunder, followed by the clanking of massive iron chains securing the underground hoists.
Sera Thorne stood at the broken compound gate, her hand resting on the ash shaft of her Storm-Pike.
“He pulled all five hundred men into the subterranean complex,” Sera said, her keen eyes tracking the dust clouds settling over the central elevator tower. “He abandoned the outer palisade and the surface warehouses. He’s turning the deep mines into a sealed fortress.”
Barnaby spat a yellow stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Cowardly dog.”
“He saw what happened to Kross and ran like a kicked cur,” Barnaby continued, shaking his head. “The lower shafts are twenty levels deep, reinforced with granite vaults and blast doors. If we try to dig him out, we’ll lose half our hide just breaching the first iron grate.”
Linnea walked over from the veranda, carrying a wooden tray with a steaming ceramic teapot. Her hands were no longer shaking, but her brow remained furrowed with anxiety.
