Chapter 133 - The Coal Chute
The entrance to the old coal chute was buried beneath three inches of slush and a rusted steel utility plate behind a dumpster in the municipal lot.
Frankie and two of Marcus's men used a crowbar to lever the plate upward, fighting the groan of frozen metal. A wave of damp, subterranean air—smelling of old soot, wet limestone, and decades of stagnant drainage—rolled up into our faces.
"Anna stays in the van with two men," Marcus ordered, turning to his wife.
Anna shook her head immediately. "I spent two days locked in the dark waiting to die, Marcus. I am not sitting in an idling van while you finish this. I know what Cole looks like when he’s lying. I can read his financial notations better than any of your foot soldiers."
Marcus stared at her for two long seconds. There was no argument, no patronizing display of marital authority. He simply touched her cheek with a gloved thumb and nodded. "Stay behind me."
We dropped into the chute one by one.
The drop was eight feet into an angled trench of crumbled brick and anthracite dust. My boots sank into the grime as my flashlight beam cut through the darkness. The ceiling was low, vaulted brick held up by decaying timber posts.
Above us, the muffled *thud-thud-thud* of sledgehammers vibrated through the floorboards of the diner overhead. Dust sifted down through the floor joists like gray snow.
"They're directly above the kitchen," I whispered, keeping my light low. "Booth Four is twenty feet to the north, right where the foundation wall butts up against the sewer main."
We crawled along the narrow crawlspace between the ancient brick arches. Marcus moved with impossible silence for a man his size, his weapon drawn and pointed at the joists above.
When we reached the north pillar, the beam of my flashlight caught a square wooden hatch recessed into the stone wall, secured by an iron padlock coated in heavy cosmoline grease.
"This is it," I breathed, my hands shaking as I fit the brass key into the cylinder.
The lock resisted for a second, twenty years of grime fighting the tumblers, before clicking open with a dull, heavy clunk. I pulled the iron latch back. The wooden panel swung open to reveal a hollow brick compartment built into the dead space between the diner's outer foundation and the booth's false wall.
Inside lay a rectangular metal lockbox, painted navy blue, wrapped in waxed canvas.
"The ledger," Marcus said softly.
Before I could reach inside, the ceiling above us exploded with a deafening splintering of wood.
A steel crowbar tore through the floorboards directly over our heads, showering us with rotten oak splinters and white gypsum dust. A bright beam from a flashlight poked down through the jagged hole, sweeping across the dark cavity.
*"Hey! Cole!"* a rough voice shouted from above. *"The wall's hollow, but the cavity drops down into the subfloor! Somebody cut an access hatch from below!"*
Marcus didn't hesitate. He grabbed the waxed canvas bundle from the brick compartment with one hand, shoveled me behind him with the other, and aimed his suppressed weapon upward through the hole.
*Pfft. Pfft.*
Two low, coughing reports echoed through the floor joists.
Above us, a heavy body hit the linoleum floor with a concussive thud, followed by the clatter of dropped tools and immediate shouts of panic.
*"Shots fired! Shots fired from beneath the floorboards!"*
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"Move!" Marcus barked, shoving the bundle into my arms. "Back to the chute! Now!"
We scrambled backward through the coal dust as boots pounded across the diner floor above us. Then, through the hole in the floorboards, came the sharp, unmistakable sound of automatic fire chewing through the oak timber.
