Chapter Forty
Fitzhugh lay on the stone floor of what he assumed to be a wine cellar in a cottage, perhaps even an abandoned factory. It was the smell that gave his location away—that damp, musty smell of age and disuse. What he wasn’t expecting to find when he finally sat up was the arc shaped wall of light at one end of the room. He somewhat groggily noticed the two lines of steel running out of the opening, and his pain-addled brain took a moment to register they were railway tracks leading out of what was clearly a tunnel and, judging by the amount of foliage that had grown inside, a long abandoned one.
What had woken him up was approaching footsteps and voices. His head swooned and his stomach lurched violently, so he lay back down and tried to find a position that, if not comfortab
