The air grew cooler and smelled of damp stone.

“What is your name?” I asked as we hurried down the corridor.

“Leo,” he said.

“How long have you worked for Moretti, Leo?”

“Three years,” he said. “He took me in when my dad died.”

We reached a heavy steel door at the end of the tunnel.

Leo punched a code into a digital keypad on the wall.

The lock clicked open with a heavy metallic clunk.

Inside was a small, windowless room with several computer monitors and a rack of rifles.

A map of the county was pinned to the wall, covered in red and blue ink.

“Sit down,” Leo said, pointing to a metal folding chair.

I did not sit.

I walked straight to the map.

The ink marks showed the known territories of the Moretti family and the Kroll syndicate.

The area near the northern ridge was marked with a large red question mark.

“They think it’s impassable,” I said, tracing the contour lines with my finger.

“It isn’t.”

“We tried to send a scouting team up there last spring,” Leo said.