Chapter 46 - The Shattered Vault
Victoria didn't back down. Instead, her jaw hardened into an expression of raw, unadulterated venom. "You think you're clever, Brian? You think your white-collar tricks are going to protect you from what’s inside that vault?"
She turned sharply to her head of private security—a scarred, towering man named Kholov. She didn't say a word, but the look between them was instantaneous.
"Federal agents! Secure the perimeter!" Miller barked, sensing the shift in air.
Before Miller could reach for his sidearm, smoke canisters rolled from the undercarriage of the trailing town car, hissing dense, sulfurous gray smoke across Atlantic Avenue. Commuters screamed as traffic abruptly halted. The thunderous crack of a suppressed firearm echoed off the granite columns, shattering the customs house glass doors into a cascade of sharp shards.
Kholov moved like a battering ram, shoving Miller to the ground while Victoria sprinted straight through the shattered entrance of the building.
"Carter, get Miller to safety!" I shouted, drawing my weapon and charging through the smoke.
The interior of the old customs house was plunged into emergency power, red strobe lights painting the vaulted marble foyer in blood-colored flashes. Victoria was running straight for the subterranean elevator shaft at the rear of the grand hall. She wasn't trying to claim the legal rights anymore; she was trying to physically destroy or seize the documents before the federal marshals could log them into evidence.
I vaulted the brass security turnstiles, my boots skidding across the polished marble. Gunfire erupted behind me as Carter’s men engaged Kholov’s tactical escort outside.
I took the spiral iron staircase downward, taking the steps three at a time. The air grew colder, smelling of mildew, aged paper, and ozone.
When I reached the basement corridor, the heavy steel security gate to Vault 402 had already been breached with a shaped thermal charge. Sparks still sputtered along the melted locking pins.
Inside the small, concrete-lined chamber, Victoria stood before an open safety deposit box, frantically stuffing a bundle of yellowed parchment into an insulated tactical satchel.
"Step away from the box, Victoria!" I yelled, bringing my weapon to bear on her chest.
She slowly turned around. In the harsh fluorescent light, her eyes were wild, unhinged by the collapse of her meticulously orchestrated revenge.
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"You don't understand, Brian," she panted, clutching the satchel to her chest. "This isn't just about money! Your father erased my family! He erased our name from the city, took our ships, took our home, and drove my father to put a bullet through his own head! And Jason... Jason sat there laughing at Thanksgiving, bragging about his worthless accomplishments, completely ignorant that he was living on my family's spilled blood!"
"And you thought taking it out on an infant made you righteous?" I demanded, closing the distance slowly. "You're no better than Marcus. You're just a ghost haunting a grave."
