The iron door groaned as he swung it open, revealing a dark, narrow brick tunnel.

“Where does this go?” I asked, rising to my feet and brushing the dust from my knees.

“The old boathouse,” Julian said. “It connects to the shoreline, away from the main security gates.”

He ushered Margaret through the narrow opening first.

I followed, the cold air from the underground passage hitting my face instantly.

The tunnel was narrow, built of rough limestone that smelled of damp earth and old lake water.

Julian walked ahead, carrying Emma easily, his flashlight guiding our path.

The walls were dripping with condensation, and the sound of our footsteps echoed softly against the wet stone.

“The feds,” I whispered, trying to keep pace beside him in the dark. “The men upstairs said they raided the senator’s office.”

“They did,” Julian replied without looking back.

“How?”

“I didn’t use the local channels,” he said. “The Chicago field office has a unit that doesn’t answer to the senator’s payroll.”

“You gave them the tugboat files?”

“Everything,” he said. “The maintenance logs, the payoff receipts, and the names of the inspectors who signed off on the damaged hull.”