Page 16 of Undercover Shadow
“We need to check that area,” I said, shining my torch down a tunnel that narrowed significantly. “It might lead to another section.”
The space contracted gradually until we had to move in single file, then forced us to our hands and knees. I went first since I was significantly smaller in stature.
Halfway through the tightest section, I got hung up on a jutting edge. I tried to shift, to work myself free, but the angle was wrong. The rock had wedged against my shoulder blade, pinning me.
“I’m stuck.” The words came out steadier than my hammering pulse suggested. I tried to slow my breathing but felt as though the walls were closing in on me.
“Don’t panic. I’ll get you free,” said Tag from behind me.
“My shoulder’s wedged. I can’t—” I fought to keep my voice level even as claustrophobia clawed at my throat. “I can’t move in either direction.”
“Okay. I’m going to reach forward. Try to relax.”
His hands were on my waist, and even through layers of clothing, his touch burned. How was it possible that after everything—after his rejection, his walls, his litany of reasons we couldn’t be together—it felt like they belonged on my body?
“On three,” he said through gritted teeth. “Try to adjust your shoulders while I pull. One, two?—”
He pulled as I twisted, and I was free, tumbling into him. We landed in a heap where the tunnel was wider. We were both breathing hard as my body pressed against his. Neither of us moved for several seconds, and I could feel his rapid heartbeat pound against my spine. His arms were wrapped around me, and all it would take to find his mouth was for me to turn my head. Instead, I scrambled off him like he was burning me, because in a way, he was.
We stood, both pretending nothing had happened. Because really, nothing had.
“It looks like there’s another way in,” Tag said, motioning to our left.
The chamber I followed him into was more of a natural cave than anywhere else we’d entered. Tool marks marred the walls, old iron brackets had been installed to hold torches, and two wooden benches showed wear from use. Had it been a hiding place? A meeting room? My imagination ran wild as I pictured what had gone on in Scotland’s violent past.
“This is incredible,” I said, examining the masonry, forcing myself to focus on the historical significance rather than on the man who made concentrating on anything other than him nearly impossible. “Jacobite era, definitely. They must have used this during the uprising. Look—” I traced carved initials on the wall. “Someone left their mark. IR 1746. The year of Culloden.”
“The last stand,” Tag said quietly. “According to history books, after that, the Highland way of life was systematically destroyed.”
We took a different way out that proved to be more torturous. At one point, I had to press against Tag to navigate a particularly tight turn, and he went rigid behind me.
When we finally emerged into the main undercroft, we were both shaking—from the plummeting temperatures, exhaustion, and for me, from the effort of maintaining impossible boundaries when every instinct demanded I drop them.
“We should brief Typhon on what we found,” I said, brushing dust from my clothes.
“Agreed. I’ll handle it. You should rest.”
“I’m fine.”
He muttered something under his breath that I’d be damned before I’d ask him to repeat it.
As we climbed back into the kitchen, the throbbing in my shoulder, where it had caught in the tunnel, got worse. Without thinking, I rubbed at it, trying to ease the ache. I saw Tag’s hand move toward me, but I stepped away before he could touch me. I couldn’t bear his comfort, not when it came with such strict limits. Not when I knew he’d be gentle, then call me “kid” in the next breath.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, moving to peer out the window at nature’s relentless assault. Trees bent over like supplicants before an angry god, and debris flew past like missiles. The North Sea was visible in the distance, a churning mass of gray and white with waves tall enough to swallow houses.
The afternoon draggedon with excruciating slowness. We’d eaten a quiet lunch of leftover soup from Mrs. MacLeod’s provisions, and Tag had checked his mobile, but the signal wastoo weak to get through to either Typhon or Viper. I felt truly isolated now, cut off from Unit 23, MI6, London, and everything except each other and this crumbling castle.
Eventually, Tag suggested another exploration of the tunnels—something I was happy to do. Anything to avoid sitting in the same room, drowning in silence.
This time, we took a different branch, one that led toward what we calculated was the direction of the sea. The sound of our footsteps echoed as we descended deeper into the earth.
The tunnel here was different—rougher, more medieval. Some sections were so old the walls had worn smooth from countless hands touching them for guidance. I ran my fingers along them, sensing the history that had seeped into them. How many people had fled through here? How many secrets had these walls kept?
“When was the castle constructed?” I asked, examining the composition more closely.
“The original foundation dates back to the thirteenth century. These tunnels might have been here almost from the beginning,” Tag responded.
We’d been working for perhaps an hour when we reached another chamber, this one partially collapsed. Rubble blocked most of the space, but there was a gap near the ceiling, where someone small might squeeze through. The debris appeared decades old. Tag called out from behind me as I moved closer to examine what looked like carved symbols on the far wall.
