Chapter 5 - The Vault at Midnight
The rain was coming down in sheets by the time my car cut through the empty, slick-paved financial district downtown. The windshield wipers beat a frantic, rhythmic tempo against the glass as I pulled up directly in front of the imposing granite facade of the First National Mercantile building.
The monolithic structure rose eight stories into the stormy night sky, its towering neoclassical pillars swallowed by the heavy fog rolling in from the river. Every single window in the corporate block was dark—except for the sub-level service bay around the back, where a single yellow security light flickered through the driving rain.
I killed the engine, sitting in the silence of the cabin for a moment. My heart was pounding a heavy, steady drumbeat against my ribs. Mara had been right to warn me. Eleanor’s reach extended far beyond the hospital walls, and a downtown vault at midnight was the perfect place to bury a son who had started asking too many questions.
Opening the car door, I stepped out into the freezing downpour, pulling the collar of my coat up against the wind.
I bypassed the main visitor entrance and headed straight down the concrete ramp toward the sub-level delivery dock. As I rounded the corner of the reinforced steel service door, I saw a black sedan idling by the loading bay. Two men in tactical rain gear were leaning against the fender, smoking cigarettes in the shelter of the overhang, their eyes scanning the empty alleyway with professional detachment.
They weren't ordinary bank guards. They wore the exact same insignia on their lapels as the private security operatives who had tried to intimidate us in Room 418.
Eleanor hadn't just sent me a warning; she had sent a reception committee.
I crouched low in the shadow of a massive industrial dumpster, my hand sliding inside my coat to grip the heavy steel flashlight I had grabbed from the car's glove compartment. The rain hissed against the pavement, drowning out the sound of my approach as I crept closer to the side entrance, calculating the distance between the two guards and the heavy steel door that led down to the subterranean safety deposit boxes.
One of the guards tossed his cigarette butt into a puddle, muttered something to his partner, and began walking directly toward the shadow where I was hiding.
I pressed my back flat against the cold brick wall, waiting for the exact second his boots hit the edge of the shadow, my muscles coiling tight like a spring.
As he stepped around the corner, his eyes widened the moment he saw me—but before he could reach for his sidearm, I lunged forward, driving the heavy metal flashlight upward in a blinding arc that caught him square in the jaw. He dropped without a sound, sliding sideways onto the wet concrete.
The second guard shouted a curse, drawing his weapon from its shoulder holster and pivoting toward my position just as the heavy steel service door behind me buzzed loudly, its electronic lock clicking open from the inside.
Before I could dive through the gap, a hand reached out from the darkness of the open doorway, grabbed the collar of my jacket with terrifying strength, and jerked me violently inside into the pitch-black corridor just as a suppressed pistol round shattered the brickwork where my head had been a second before.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind us with a thunderous crash, locking automatically with a heavy pneumatic seal.
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In the absolute darkness of the subterranean hallway, an unfamiliar voice hissed in my ear:
"If you wanted to live past tonight, Mr. Waverly, you should have stayed in the hospital—because the files in Box 312 aren't what your wife told you they were."
