Chapter 14 - Fire and Stone
The violence above was sudden, deafening, and absolute.
Wood splintered. The sound of high-caliber rounds chewing through antique oak tables and shattering the sage-green walls reverberated down the stairwell like thunder.
Eleanor threw herself onto the concrete, screaming at the top of her lungs, covering her head with her hands. Arthur scrambled backward into the corner between two metal shelving racks, curling into a fetal ball, whimpering like a wounded dog.
"Down! Stay down behind the iron frame!" Julian barked, grabbing my arm and pulling me back into the reinforced vault.
He didn't panic. His training took over with cold, surgical efficiency. He pulled his radio from his utility belt, clicking the transmitter. "Command, this is Vance. Shots fired at the primary location. We have automatic weapon fire on the ground floor. Engage immediate tactical containment!"
A burst of static crackled back through his earpiece, followed by the frantic voice of Special Agent Miller: *"Vance! We're engaging! Suspects deployed flashbangs on South Tryon. Two shooters entered through the front patio, third suspect attempting rear delivery access. Hold your position in the basement!"*
I leaned against the cold concrete wall of the vault, my heart hammering like a trapped bird, but my hands remained steady. I looked down at the ruggedized hard drive and the FinCEN file.
"They aren't here to negotiate," I said, looking at Julian. "Arthur told them he would get the drive. The moment they saw the FBI staging on Tryon, Hayes sent a kill team to sanitize the building."
"They want to burn it," Julian said grimly, sniffing the air.
Faint traces of petroleum and smoke began to drift down the stairwell. The bastards had thrown incendiaries into the newly renovated dining room. Eight years of my sweat, two weeks of painstaking restoration, the sage paint, the sanded heart pine floors—they were setting it all on fire to destroy the physical evidence of their paper trail.
"I won't let them have it," I said, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached.
"Leah, we stay in the vault," Julian ordered, his voice commanding. "The safe room is fire-rated for four hours. The Charlotte Fire Department and SWAT are two blocks out."
"No," I said, pointing to the rusted iron grate at the rear of the storage room—the very drainage tunnel Arthur had discovered four years ago during the flood. "That tunnel connects to the municipal stormwater culvert that empties beneath the interstate bridge behind the rail yard. Arthur’s ledger described the route. If we stay here, we're trapped if Hayes' people seal the heavy door from the outside."
Julian looked at the grate, then at the iron hinges secured with a rusted padlock. "Can we breach it?"
I grabbed a thirty-pound cast-iron skillet from the kitchen storage crate beside the door. "Stand back."
I swung the heavy iron pan with all the rage, betrayal, and fury that had accumulated inside me over the last decade. The iron skillet struck the corroded padlock with a thunderous clatter. The ancient shackle bent. I swung again, throwing my entire body into the strike. The corroded metal sheared clean off, and the iron grate swung open into the dark, echoing brick culvert.
"Arthur! Eleanor! Get up!" I snapped, turning back to the corridor.
Eleanor was hyperventilating, her mascara smeared across her face in black streaks. Arthur was shaking so badly he couldn't stand.
"Move!" Julian shouted, grabbing Arthur by the scruff of his jacket and hauling him to his feet. "Into the tunnel, now!"
Just as Julian shoved Arthur through the grate, the heavy wooden door at the top of the basement stairs was kicked off its hinges. A man in tactical body armor, wearing a ballistic helmet and carrying a suppressed carbine, appeared on the landing.
He didn't announce himself. He raised the rifle toward the vault.
Julian reacted instantly. Raising his sidearm, he fired two controlled shots into the center mass of the shooter’s chest plate. The heavy impacts threw the gunman backward into the doorframe, knocking him off balance.
"Go! Leah, move!" Julian yelled, diving through the opening after me and pulling the heavy iron grate shut behind us.
We scrambled into the dark brick pipe just as a hail of bullets ricocheted off the iron bars, throwing hot sparks against the damp stone.
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Behind us, The Mercer Table was burning. But ahead of us lay the dark underbelly of the city—and the only leverage that could tear Vanguard Crest to the ground.
***
