RAY MARTIN CODE

CHAPTER - 2 Flows Below 2

The elevator at the far end of the hall chimed, He grabbed his mop handle like a spear and moved quickly toward his cart. If anyone saw him here, in this wing, they’d have questions he couldn’t answer.

The elevator doors opened, Two security guards stepped out, their steps heavy and deliberate, Ray kept his head down, pushing the cart toward the service corridor, praying they’d see nothing unusual.

“Hey, Martin,” one of them called.

The tone was casual, but something about it was… too casual, He turned slowly. “Yeah?”

“Boss says you’re needed in the sublevel. Right now.”

Ray’s pulse ticked up. The sublevel was where the freight deliveries came in. Nobody summoned a janitor there in the middle of the night, unless it wasn’t really about cleaning. “I’m still working up here,” he said lightly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can it wait?”

The guards exchanged a look. One smiled, slow and unfriendly. “No. It can’t.”

They flanked him, steering him toward the service elevator, Ray’s mind raced. Was this about the server? About the man with the pistol? Or had Harold Vance finally decided his charity case wasn’t worth the trouble anymore?

The elevator dropped past the lobby, past the parking level, into the dark mechanical guts of the building.

When the doors opened, the air was cooler, damp, smelling faintly of oil and concrete.

Dim fluorescent lights flickered over a narrow hallway, The guards walked him through a maze of storage rooms and locked cages until they reached a heavy steel door. One swiped a keycard; the door buzzed open.

Inside was an empty room. Or almost empty, A chair sat in the center, bolted to the floor, On it lay a manila folder, Beside it, an envelope with Ray’s name written in thick, black ink.

The guards didn’t enter. “Take it,” one said. “Then go.”

Ray stepped forward, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the concrete, The envelope was heavier than it looked.

Inside: a single flash drive identical to the one in his pocket,

and a printed note that read: WE CHOSE YOU. DON’T WASTE IT.

No signature. No explanation, He looked at the folder.

It was filled with photographs, grainy surveillance stills of him at work, in the supermarket, even at his car. Some taken weeks ago. Some, last night.

The last photo made his stomach turn. It was Ella Vance, stepping out of a black sedan, The timestamp was twenty minutes ago.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Unknown number.

Against better judgment, he answered, A woman’s voice, low, urgent: “Ray, you need to get out. Now. They’re coming for both of us.”

The line went dead, Behind him, the steel door slammed shut. A lock clicked, The clang of the steel lock echoed like a gunshot, Ray spun toward the door and yanked the handle. Solid, No keycard slot on this side. No exit.

He scanned the room, bare concrete walls, a single vent too small to crawl through, and the lonely chair with its folder and envelope still sitting in the middle like an accusation.

The air felt heavier now, as if the oxygen was thinning, He pressed his ear to the door. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer.

Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but years of surviving on scraps and bad luck had taught him one thing: panic wastes time.

His eyes went to the vent again. Too small for him, but maybe not for something else, He grabbed the mop handle from his cart, jammed it into the grate, and popped it loose.

Inside, a thick bundle of cabling snaked through the wall. Power lines. Data lines, He pulled the flash drive from the envelope and hesitated.

Plugging into an unknown network here was the kind of stupid move that could get you killed, but so was waiting for whoever was on the other side of that door.

He slid the drive into his portable adapter, connected it to the open maintenance port in the cabling,

and watched as his ancient work tablet lit up with a new interface. A simple black screen, A single blinking cursor.

Text appeared, not typed by him: HELLO, RAY.

He swallowed hard. Okay… this is new.

WHO ARE YOU? he typed.

SOMEONE WHO NEEDS YOU ALIVE.

WHY?

BECAUSE YOU HAVE SOMETHING THEY WANT.

Before he could respond, the floor shuddered beneath him, A deep, metallic groan rattled the walls, followed by the unmistakable hiss of gas.

Ray’s pulse spiked. He yanked the adapter free, shoved the flash drive into his pocket, and went for the mop handle again, If he couldn’t break the door, maybe he could use the metal chair to A violent crack split the air.

The door’s lock exploded inward, showering him with fragments of metal.

Two men in matte-black tactical gear poured into the room, faces hidden behind visors, No words, no warning, one swung for him with a telescoping baton.

Ray ducked, the strike slamming into the chair with a hollow clang, He rammed the mop handle into the man’s knee; the attacker grunted but didn’t drop.

The second man moved in, grabbing Ray by the collar. Ray twisted, driving an elbow into the man’s ribs, then used the momentum to dive for the fallen folder.

He didn’t know why, maybe instinct, but something told him not to leave it behind, The first man lunged again, and Ray hurled the metal chair at him. It bought him three seconds, enough to slip past them and into the hall.

The corridor was a maze of concrete, but Ray had been down here enough times to know the freight elevator was left, then right, then two more doors, A gunshot cracked, the sound muffled but still deafening in the enclosed space, The bullet ricocheted off the wall inches from his head.

Ray ran harder, Turned the corner and froze, The freight elevator doors were open. Inside stood Ella Vance, Her blouse was torn, eyes wide, a thin line of blood running from her temple.

“Ray,” she said, breathless. “They”

Behind her, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her back into the shadows of the elevator, The doors slid shut. The red IN USE light flickered once… and went dark.