Chapter 88 - Shadows in the Snow
The sound reverberated down the granite stairwell—a harsh, violent slam followed by the muffled shouting of men.
"Roy!" one of the plainclothes officers at the vault entrance barked, drawing his service weapon and pressing his back against the reinforced steel doorframe. "Front lobby security is down! We have multiple armed entries through the loading dock!"
Inspector Roy moved instantly, unholstering her Glock and shoving the heavy tin box back toward me. "Take the documents! Into your coat, now!"
I didn't hesitate. I stuffed the three manila envelopes and the microcassette recorder inside my heavy winter parka, zipping it tight against my chest. The brass key remained in my pocket.
"Julian?" I asked, adrenaline surging through my veins.
"He didn't come with lawyers," Roy said grimly, keying her radio. "Dispatch, this is Roy, 10-33 at Rue Sainte-Catherine! Shots fired, commercial level! We need tactical backup immediately!"
Static hissed through her speaker. "Dispatch unavailable—signal jammed locally."
"He bought the private security team on the building’s contract," Roy muttered, her jaw tight. "They cut the comms from the basement hub. We have only one exit, and it leads straight past the main teller floor."
A series of rapid, suppressed pops echoed from the top of the stairs—the unmistakable sound of silenced automatic fire. The gray-haired vault clerk dropped to his knees behind the desk, trembling violently, hands clasped over his bald head.
"Madame Vance," Roy whispered, grabbing my shoulder with an iron grip. "There is a freight lift behind the ventilation corridor. It leads to the underground parking garage beneath the complex. You do not stop, you do not look back. My officers will hold the stairwell."
"I’m not leaving you," I said.
"You have the evidence that puts the entire syndicate away," Roy replied, her eyes burning into mine. "If Julian gets those files, he kills you, he kills your daughter, and he walks out of Montreal on a diplomatic visa before sunrise. Move!"
The stairwell door was kicked off its hinges with a tremendous bang.
Roy lunged forward, returning fire in three measured, deafening bursts that echoed like cannon fire inside the enclosed granite vault. Plaster and marble chips sprayed from the ceiling as automatic fire stitched across the corridor wall.
The second officer grabbed my arm, shoving me through a low, unmarked utility door into the darkness of the service corridor. "Run, Emma! Level B-3! The blue sedan near pillar forty-two!"
May you like
I bolted into the darkness of the concrete tunnel, the heavy weight of forty years of family crimes pressing hard against my ribs, while the gunfire behind me roared like a dying empire.
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