"To the kiln tunnel! Now!"
The subterranean drying kiln beneath the Whitfield Mill was an eighty-foot-long tunnel constructed from two-foot-thick blocks of native river stone and firebrick, engineered in 1938 to season high-grade white oak timber with superheated steam. The air inside dropped to a humid, resinous seventy degrees, dense with the sweet, suffocating fragrance of dry pine sawdust and antique creosote.
We scrambled through the heavy iron fire-doors, Thomas dragging the leather courier case holding the cylinder, Marcus Vance covering the entrance with his Glock, while Sergeant Ray limped behind us, his left forearm bound in a field dressing where a flying timber splinter had slashed his sleeve.
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"We have two minutes before they clear that flume debris," Ray wheezed, his face pale in the dim red beam of his tactical light. "They have three shooters left on foot. Ex-German border guards from GSG-9. They are carrying MP7 submachine guns and tactical concussion grenades."
