They made the river in twelve minutes.
Caleb took the back streets like he'd practiced them in another life, slipping the sedan between delivery vans and morning cyclists until the city thinned to brick warehouses and thin grass. Ahead, the river bent like a quiet muscle. The pump house sat low on the bank—an old square of brick and iron—its windows bricked halfway, its roof patched with tar like a healed wound.
Leona checked her phone. 10:15:19. Two minutes and change.
"Shadow clock," she said.
Kemi passed it forward from the back seat—wood warm from her hands, brass pointer folded flat. Leona set it on her knee as Caleb pulled into a gravel turnout hidden by reeds.
"Black sedan," Kemi said. "Six car lengths back, pretending to admire nature."
"Let them admire," Caleb replied, already scanning the bank, the pump-house door, the slope of the roof. "We move fast. We don't play heroic."
Leona slung the tote across her shoulder. The portfolio (LV-004) pressed a shape into her side; the clock lay light in her palm. She stepped out. Air smelled of iron and green water. The wind ran its knuckles across the reeds.
10:16:02.
They crossed the short slope to the pump house. The door was padlocked but old—softened by weather and neglect. Caleb pressed the padlock against the jamb, drove his thumb into the shackle with practiced pressure, and twisted. The corroded core gave. He eased it free without the show of force most men prefer.
"Inside," he said.
The room tasted like damp brick and old turbines. A metal grate ran the floor's center where the river once flowed through pipes the size of throats. A ladder vanished into the dark below. Long windows hugged the ceiling—slits the exact height a low sun could exploit. The only furniture was a rusting switchboard with bakelite dials and a faded enamel sign that read NO UNAUTHORIZED OPERATION.
"Clock," Leona said, breath quick. 10:16:31.
She unfolded the brass pointer, set the wooden base on the switchboard where the watercolor showed it should go—front edge lined to the etched mark, pointer aimed true north by instinct and the tiniest scribed compass on the corner. The pointer cast a shadow across the enamel and the brick behind it—a thin blade.
Caleb moved to the door. "We've got ninety seconds. If company arrives, I buy you thirty."
Kemi took station at the side window, knees flexed, a biscuit still absurdly in her pocket. "I can buy ten with sarcasm."
"Save it," Leona said, eyes on the shadow clock. 10:16:49.
The river's light shifted. It found the slitted windows, came in at an angle that made dust earn its keep. The shadow sharpened, slid along the enamel until the blade of it landed on a row of tiny stamped numbers no one would notice if they weren't looking for them.
–17 / 00 / 13.
"Same digits," Leona breathed. "The timing notes."
She rotated the pointer a degree. The blade crossed from numbers to an old instruction diagram stenciled on the wall: a schematic of the pump with letters A–F marking valves. The shadow fell across A.
"Valve A," she said, spun, and found the corresponding wheel sunk waist-high in brick. She wrenched. It stuck, then gave with a groan that woke a memory in the building's bones. Water knocked under the grate.
10:17:21. The shadow slid to B. Leona spun the next wheel. A second knock answered—the river shifting in a hidden labyrinth.
At the door, Caleb said, "We have admirers."
Boots on gravel. Two. No voices. The kind of quiet that knows sound travels.
10:17:39. Shadow to C. Leona turned, palms burning, forearms screaming. The valve came slow, unwilling.
"Help?" Kemi hissed.
"I've got it," Leona said through her teeth. The wheel surrendered in a sudden lurch. A surge under the floor made the grate quake.
The door latch clicked. Caleb's hand hit it first, holding it shut with just enough. "Private viewing," he called, tone mild and edged.
A man's voice—cool, patient. "Delivery for Miss Vale."
"Leave it on the step," Caleb said.
Silence. Then the soft scrape of something set down. The latch gave a polite push. Caleb didn't move. Neither did the latch.
10:17:57. The shadow blade found D. Leona spun the wheel and felt something align beneath the building. A hum rose, thin and real, rattling the enamel like a loose tooth.
Kemi flinched. "Tell me that's music."
"Old electricity," Leona said. "Or attention."
The door shook once, small. Then twice, harder. Wood complained. Caleb slid the deadbolt. "That buys us seconds," he said. "Not minutes."
10:18:14. The shadow thinned, skated toward E.
Leona found E half-hidden behind a fallen cabinet. She shouldered it aside; grit bit her palms. The wheel was seized. She put everything into it, legs braced, jaw clenched. Nothing. The seconds bled.
"Caleb," she said without turning.
He left the door, crossed, set his hand over hers. "On three," he said. "One—two—" They hauled. The wheel screamed like a metal animal and turned a quarter. Cold air surged from the grate, wet and clean. The building shuddered.
Footfalls retreated outside—then returned with a rhythm she knew: a run-up. The door bucked under a joined hit. The deadbolt held, complained.
10:18:41. The blade moved to F—smallest wheel, tucked near the ladder that sank into the river's throat. Leona bent, turned it. It moved like it wanted to please. On the switchboard, a little glass window flickered alive—filament glowing, then steady. The enamel sign's black letters seemed to deepen.
A seam appeared in the brick opposite the windows—hairline, honest. A square Leona would've sworn was wall said No, and became a door.
"Got you," she whispered.
The door outside hit again. Wood cracked. A voice—new, amused—floated in through the slits. "Miss Vale, your punctuality is astonishing. Open up and bring what you found. We'll spare the hardware."
"Thirty seconds," Caleb said, back at the door, body angled, weight set. He held the deadbolt with one hand and a length of rusted pipe in the other like a low promise.
Leona crossed to the brick seam. There was no handle, only a small shallow divot. She pressed her fingers into it. Warm, as if someone had just removed a hand. The brick panel sighed and swung inward on a hinge that should have been dust centuries ago.
Behind it: a recess. On the stone shelf sat a metal tube the length of her forearm, capped both ends, copper gone green at the joins. Beside it, a strip of linen wound tight and bound with a wire twin to the museum's, tag stamped LV-004.
Kemi hovered at her shoulder. "We just unlocked a very pretty burglary charge."
"Welcome to curation," Leona said, lifting the tube—heavy, dense. Inside: something shifted with a padded thunk—papers, not rigid. She slid the linen into her pocket, felt the familiar warm press over her heart.
The door took another hit. The deadbolt screamed. Caleb's pipe lifted.
"Go," he said without looking back. "Rear window. It's boarded from outside but rotten."
Leona shoved the tube into the tote, slung it, grabbed the shadow clock. "Kemi."
"On you," Kemi said, already at the window—a rectangle of wood and paint that resisted the idea of light. She dug nails under the loosened corner. The board tore with a damp pop, splinters in her palm. "Ow—worth it—move!"
They ducked through the jagged gap into the reeds, knees wet, breath white in the cool. Leona hit gravel, steadied, ran. The black sedan waited at the turnout, engine idling, a figure leaning against the fender like a patient decision. Another approached the pump-house door with a pry bar.
"Left!" Caleb's shout from inside—followed by a crash as the door gave.
Leona sprinted left along the bank. The reeds cut at her calves. The tote slapped her hip. She didn't look back. On the water, a flatboat nosed out from under the far bridge—small, outboard motor cough-purring. The driver wore a cap pulled low.
"Friend or finale?" Kemi gasped.
The flatboat turned toward them, engine rising from cough to intent.
Behind, the pump-house door burst. Two men spilled onto the step. The one with the pry bar pointed. The one at the sedan straightened and slid behind the wheel.
"River," Leona said.
"River," Kemi agreed, and they both veered for the narrow stone jetty like two lines converging.
The flatboat kissed the jetty with a bump. The cap lifted just enough to show a face Leona didn't know—a woman in her forties, sun-creased, eyes bright with mischief and kindness.
"You called for courier?" she said.
"We didn't," Kemi panted.
"I did," said another voice—from the reeds behind them. Mahmoud. He stepped onto the jetty like he'd been standing in river grass since dawn, a small, battered satchel over his shoulder. "Apologies for the drama," he added to Leona. "It seems we were expected to be less efficient." He gestured to the boat. "On."
Leona didn't argue. She jumped; Kemi after. Mahmoud handed her a coil of rope. "Tie in," he said. "They'll try to bump."