Chapter 10 - AMBUSH AT THE RAIL YARDS
The underground tunnel was freezing.
Our breath plumed in white clouds beneath the weak glow of Julian’s penlight.
We walked for nearly forty minutes through the forgotten artery of the city, hearing the distant rumble of early morning subway trains above us.
At 6:15 AM, the tunnel ended at a solid red-brick wall.
Mortar had crumbled around the edges, exposing the seam where the 1980s expansion had sealed the passage.
Marcus stepped forward with a heavy iron pry bar he had scavenged from the furnace room.
He wedged the flat edge between the bricks and heaved with his massive shoulders.
With a dull crunch of old cement, the first brick broke free.
Within ten minutes, Marcus had cleared an opening large enough for a person to crawl through.
Julian went first, his gun drawn.
"Clear," his whisper echoed through the hole.
I helped Mason through the gap, followed by Arthur.
We stepped into a clean, climate-controlled basement corridor lined with beige acoustic tiles and fluorescent emergency strip lighting.
The air smelled of floor wax and ozone.
A bronze wall plaque read: CHESTNUT STREET DEPOSITORY – LOWER VAULT ACCESS.
We were inside.
Julian checked his watch.
"6:45 AM. The staff will be arriving on the upper floor."
"What about security?" Mason asked, holding his side.
"The depository operates under federal banking protocols," Julian explained.
"Armed guards at every station, but they answer to the state banking commission, not local police."
"Even Charles Price can't bribe everyone in this facility."
We took the service elevator up to the private vault lobby.
The doors slid open at 6:58 AM.
The lobby was magnificent.
High ceilings of Italian marble, crystal chandeliers, and polished bronze security gates separating the public foyer from the two-foot-thick vault door.
Sitting behind the bulletproof security desk was an elderly gentleman with white hair, wearing a crisp navy blazer.
His brass nametag read: H. VANCE – CHIEF CUSTODIAN.
When the elevator doors opened, Mr. Vance looked up from his computer monitor.
His glasses slipped down his nose.
His mouth fell open.
"Mr... Mr. Calder?" Vance whispered, standing up slowly from his swivel chair.
"They reported you were dead, sir! The news said—"
"The news was mistaken, Harold," Arthur said with a warm, steady smile.
"I need access to Box 412 immediately."
Harold Vance swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he reached for his master keycard.
"Of course, Mr. Calder. Right away."
Vance buzzed the heavy bronze gate open.
We walked into the private viewing room outside the master vault.
The massive circular steel vault door was already cracked open on its morning schedule.
Vance led Arthur and me into the rows of brass security boxes.
Box 412 was located at eye level.
Arthur produced the brass key.
Vance inserted the depository’s master guard key into the left keyhole.
Arthur inserted his brass key into the right keyhole.
"Turn together on three," Vance instructed.
"One. Two. Three."
CLANK.
The dual tumblers shifted simultaneously.
The heavy brass faceplate swung outward.
Inside lay a long, steel safe deposit box.
Arthur pulled it out and carried it to the viewing table in the center of the room.
He lifted the hinged lid.
Inside sat a thick, leather-bound journal filled with meticulous handwritten entries, signed financial agreements, and a stack of gold-embossed stock certificates representing 51% voting control of Calder Hospitality Group.
Beside the ledger lay a set of audio cassette tapes and digital flash drives.
"This is it," Arthur whispered, running his hand over the worn leather.
"Fifty years of work. Saved."
"Not yet, Arthur."
A woman’s voice cut through the vault air like a whip.
I spun around.
Standing in the vault doorway was Vanessa Price.
Behind her stood Charles Price himself, a silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece Italian suit, his eyes cold and predatory.
And beside Charles stood four private security guards, their submachine guns aimed directly at our chests.
In Vanessa’s manicured hand was a small, pearl-handled .22 caliber pistol.
May you like
And she was pointing it straight at my head.
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