Chapter 27 - The Crayon in the Dark
Inside the deep, freezing belly of the Fulton Cold Storage vault, Maya shivered violently.
The temperature in the vault hovered just above freezing. Her yellow diner uniform offered no protection against the damp, biting chill that seeped into her bones. Her wrists were raw and bleeding, the plastic zip-ties slicing into her skin as she continuously worked them against the metal bracket behind the wooden chair.
She had been working at the bonds for three hours.
Marcone sat twenty feet away at a folding steel table, nervously gulping down scotch from a crystal tumbler, his eyes constantly darting toward the heavy vault door. Four heavy-set enforcers stood beside him, clutching fully automatic submachine guns, their knuckles white, sweat dripping down their faces despite the freezing air.
The news from the outside had gotten progressively worse with every passing minute. Blackwood’s forces had annihilated Marcone’s bookmaking rings, flattened his distribution docks, and slaughtered two entire security details within hours.
The silence inside the vault was thick, suffocating, and terrifying.
Maya leaned her head down, pretending to be semi-conscious, while her left hand worked frantically behind the chair.
When Marcone’s men had searched her, they had taken her phone, her meager tips from the diner apron, and her coat. But they had not thoroughly searched the tiny, torn inner coin pocket of her apron—a pocket meant for spare pens.
In that pocket, nestled deep in the fabric, was a small, broken piece of waxy purple.
It was the other half of the purple crayon Sofia had snapped in half during their breakfast two mornings ago. Sofia had shoved it into Maya’s pocket with a shy smile, murmuring that Maya needed to keep it safe so they could finish drawing the flowers together.
Maya’s numb fingers managed to dig the two-inch wax stub out of the torn seam.
She held it tightly against her palm, using the blunt, waxy end to press into the rough wooden backing of the chair. Slowly, agonizingly, she dragged the wax against the wood, leaving deep, purple scuffs on the back of the frame, marking her position.
More importantly, the motion was allowing her to slide her right wrist slightly upward against the edge of the metal hinge where the chair's back met the seat.
It was a jagged, rusted screw.
Every time she pulled, the rusted metal sawed through the tough plastic of the zip-tie—and through the flesh of her wrist. The pain was searing, like a red-hot needle being driven under her skin, but Maya bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound.
*Stay awake,* she chanted to herself in the freezing dark. *Stay awake, Bennett. Dante is coming. Don't you dare die in this freezer.*
Suddenly, the massive overhead industrial halogen lights flickered violently.
A low, vibrating hum resonated through the concrete floor.
Marcone jumped out of his chair, spilling his scotch across the steel table. "What the hell was that?!" he screamed at his men. "Check the generator!"
One of the bodyguards ran to the wall intercom, pressing the buzzer frantically. "Control, report! What happened to the main power?!"
Static hissed through the speaker.
Then, a sickening, wet crunch came over the line, followed by the sound of a body hitting a metal grate.
The speaker clicked, and a voice spoke through the intercom—calm, deep, and so terrifyingly cold that the four armed men visibly took a step backward.
*"Marcone."*
Marcone’s breath hitched in his throat. He dropped the tumbler; the glass shattered violently against the concrete.
"Blackwood..." Marcone whispered, his voice trembling.
*"You made two mistakes today,"* the voice on the intercom echoed through the freezing vault. *"The first was believing I would die on that overpass. The second was touching the girl who gave my daughter back her soul."*
"Light up the door!" Marcone shrieked, panic completely shattering his composure. He unholstered a chrome revolver from his jacket and grabbed Maya roughly by the collar, dragging her and the chair backward toward the reinforced rear wall. He jammed the cold barrel of his gun against her jaw. "Aim at the vault door! The second it opens, empty your drums!"
Maya felt the last fiber of the plastic zip-tie snap behind her back.
May you like
Her hands were free.
***
