Chapter 25 - A Desperate Call from the Cell
"Hostiles in the main foyer!" Miller barked into his lapel mic, motioning his two men toward the heavy vault gate. "They brought suppressed carbines and flashbangs! They're moving toward the elevator shaft!"
"Can they cut the elevator cables?" I asked immediately, stepping in front of Emily and Marcus.
"They won't need to," Julian said grimly. "This vault was built in 1912. There's an emergency service stairwell that connects directly to the sub-basement sewer utility access. That’s how Evelyn intended for someone to leave if the bank fell under siege."
"Finch, open the utility access," I ordered.
The old banker didn't hesitate. Terrified of the gunfire rattling through the ceiling ventilation ducts, he dashed to a reinforced iron grate set into the foundation wall behind the lockers. He punched an eight-digit sequence into a mechanical tumblers lock, and the grate swung back with a deep, echoing groan, revealing a damp, brick-lined tunnel illuminated by low-wattage yellow bulbs.
"Go!" Miller yelled, firing two warning bursts up the concrete stairwell as the heavy steel fire door at the top began to heat up under the blast of an acetylene cutting torch. "We’ll hold the choke point for three minutes! Take the maintenance exit out to Congress Street!"
I took Emily’s arm, keeping one hand resting protectively over Marcus’s sleeping face inside the carrier. Julian grabbed the calfskin ledger and the hardware drive, shoving them into his leather briefcase, and we plunged into the subterranean tunnel.
The tunnel smelled of old brick, damp moss, and centuries of Boston history. We moved at a rapid jog, our footsteps echoing softly along the curved masonry. Above us, the muffled thud of an explosive breach detonated through the stone, followed by a furious exchange of gunfire. Miller and his men were making their stand.
As we reached a metal ladder leading up to an iron street grate, my encrypted satellite phone—the one Julian had issued me the previous evening—vibrated violently in my coat pocket.
I checked the caller ID. It was an automated trunk call routed through the Massachusetts Department of Corrections.
I hit accept and put it on speaker as Julian and I began securing the ladder.
"Brian?"
The voice that came through the receiver wasn't arrogant. It wasn't smug. It was shattered, trembling, and choked with frantic sobs.
It was Jason.
"Jason?" I answered, my voice cold and flat as I kept my eyes on the dark tunnel behind us.
"Brian, please! Oh God, Brian, don't hang up! Don't hang up!" Jason was hyperventilating, the background noise echoing with the clanging of iron cell doors and shouting inmates. "They're going to kill us! They're trying to kill Dad!"
Emily stopped on the lower rungs of the ladder, looking back down at me in shock.
"What are you talking about?" I demanded.
"Two guys... two guys were transferred into Dad's cell block an hour ago," Jason wept, completely unraveled. The cocky golden boy who had laughed at my thrift-store coat across the Thanksgiving turkey was entirely gone. "They had shanks, Brian. Ceramic knives that didn't trip the metal detectors! Dad got stabbed three times in the chest! He's in the infirmary right now, hooked to a ventilator!"
"Who sent them, Jason?"
"Greene!" Jason screamed into the phone. "Richard Greene! Dad told me... right before he collapsed, Dad told me Greene called him yesterday morning! Greene told Dad that if he didn't give up the bank codes, neither of us would ever see a trial! Dad tried to stall him, and now they're coming for me! The guards aren't answering the block alarm! Brian, please, I know I was awful to you! I know I treated you like dirt! But we're brothers! You can't let them slaughter me in here!"
The irony of his words was sickening.
*We're brothers.*
For thirty-five years, Arthur and Jason had reminded me at every holiday, every family dinner, every single encounter, that I was an interloper, an adopted charity case who should be grateful for their scraps. Now, facing the cold reality of the violent world Arthur had willingly conspired with, Jason was crying for the very man he had tried to humiliate.
"You're not my brother, Jason," I said, my voice cutting through his hysterical weeping like a surgical blade. "You're the son of an embezzler who sold my family out to a criminal syndicate."
"Brian, please! They're outside my cell! I can hear them talking to the block turnkey! Please, talk to your lawyer! Call the governor! Call whoever you have to call!"
Julian leaned toward the phone, his face grim. "Jason Vance, this is Julian Harrington. If you want to survive the next twenty minutes, you listen to me very carefully."
"Yes! Anything! Please, Mr. Harrington!"
"The warden at Cedar Junction owes his appointment to the Harrington Foundation. I am sending an emergency extraction order to the superintendent's office right now. You will be moved to solitary confinement under federal marshal watch. But in exchange, you will sign a full confession detailing every dollar your father transferred to Richard Greene over the last ten years. Do you understand?"
"Yes! I'll sign it! I'll sign whatever you want! Just get them away from my door!"
Julian terminated the call with a quick flick of his finger. He looked at me, his eyes steady.
"Arthur won't survive the afternoon," Julian said quietly. "Three stab wounds in a prison infirmary means Richard’s people wanted to make sure he never took the stand. But Jason’s testimony will give the Department of Justice enough leverage to issue a red notice on Richard Sterling-Greene by midday."
"Assuming we make it through the morning," I said, pointing up to the grate.
May you like
Above us, the iron street grate shifted. A ray of gray morning light cut through the gloom.
Miller’s voice drifted down from the street level. "Clear! Mr. Harrington, move up! We have an armored transport waiting at the curb!"
