Chapter 9 - The Safe-Deposit Box
The deafening crunch of metal echoing across the golf course left a ringing silence in the crisp air. Smoke hissed from the radiator of the crushed Mercedes, wrapping around Michael’s terrified, frozen figure like a shroud.
Before Michael could raise his weapon again, three tactical agents in black body armor poured out of the tactical van, tackling him violently to the ground and pinning his face into the gravel. His pistol skidded across the asphalt, coming to rest near my sensible leather boot.
I didn't flinch. I looked down at the weapon, then up at Arthur Pendelton, who was already lowering his service pistol and clicking his radio.
“Target secured. Suspect is in custody. Secure the perimeter,” Arthur spoke into his lapel mic, his tone calm and professional despite the chaos. He turned back to look at me, his eyes softening slightly. “Are you alright, Mrs. Vance?”
“I’ve been better,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my veins. I looked over at Michael, who was thrashing impotently beneath the agents, screaming obscenities into the dirt. “Seventeen years. Seventeen years of living with a monster who pretended to be my husband, while he was secretly a criminal working for a syndicate that killed my father.”
“Your father’s work was too important to stay buried, Susan,” Arthur said gently, placing a hand lightly on my elbow to guide me toward the open door of the black town car. “And now we have the legal authority to unearth every single piece of it. But we need that safe-deposit box key before the syndicate’s secondary cell realizes Michael has been compromised.”
“My key?” I paused, looking down at my handbag.
“The brass key,” Arthur urged. “The one you keep in your coat pocket. The one Michael never knew existed.”
My fingers dropped into my coat pocket, wrapping around the cold, heavy brass key I had pulled from the master lockbox at the Victorian manor just hours ago. The key to the Federal Trust downtown.
“It’s in my pocket,” I said, looking up at him.
“Then we ride,” Arthur opened the back door of the town car for me. “Because every minute we waste here gives the syndicate’s regional director time to wipe the downtown servers.”
I slid into the plush leather interior of the town car, the heavy door thudding shut behind me. As the vehicle accelerated down the country club drive, leaving the smoking wreckage of Michael’s life in our rearview mirror, I pulled out my phone.
May you like
My screen displayed a new text message from an unknown number: “You have sixty minutes to hand over the key, Susan. Or your daughter Samantha never makes it home from her bridal fitting.”
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