The Smoky Corridor

107

The ghost of Horace Pettimore stared through Azalea Torres’s eyes at the mountain of shimmering gold bars stacked floor to ceiling in his hidden vault.

He propelled the girl’s body closer to the pile. Each bar weighed 12.4 kilograms. About 27 pounds. There were hundreds of them.

He had the girl grab a bar, hoist it off the pile, and load it into her backpack.

“Ummpfff …”

It strained her weak arms.

She would never be able to carry this treasure lode up to the surface and exchange it for money.

“McNulty!” he had her shout. “McNulty! Come here! I need you! I need you now!”