Chapter 8 - The Sub-Basement Vault
Sub-Basement 2 smelled of damp concrete, old paper, and ozone.
The floor was a labyrinth of cold, narrow corridors lined with heavy steel fire doors and rows of abandoned physical medical record shelves. Emergency green exit lights cast eerie, long shadows across the concrete floor.
Julian walked down the main corridor, his leather shoes making no sound against the damp floor. He held his pistol in a low ready position, his tactical flashlight illuminating the gloom.
Ahead, the heavy steel door of Archives Room 104 swung open on rusted hinges.
Inside, two federal forensic analysts lay tied to heavy steel chairs, gagged with duct tape, their laptops smashed on the floor.
Standing in the center of the room, holding a high-powered industrial incendiary torch, was Viktor Vance.
At sixty-five, Viktor was broad-shouldered, silver-haired, wearing a dark tactical jacket and heavy work boots. On the concrete table in front of him lay the blue leather ledger and four high-density external hard drives containing the entire financial history of the Sterling family trust.
“Julian,” Viktor said, turning slowly, the blue flame of the torch hiss-clicking in the quiet room. “I wondered if you’d have the courage to come down into the dark alone.”
“Put the torch down, Viktor,” Julian said, stepping into the doorway, his weapon locked onto Viktor’s chest. “The building is surrounded by three SWAT teams. There is no vehicle waiting for you outside.”
Viktor let out a dry, gravelly laugh. “Do you think I care about a ride home, boy? Genevieve paid my firm a ten-million-dollar retainer five years ago to ensure that if the family estate ever faced total liquidation, the records would burn.”
“Genevieve tried to murder my wife and child,” Julian said, his voice dead steady. “She is going to spend the rest of her life in a federal penitentiary. And if you light that torch, you’ll be sharing a cell wall with her.”
Viktor looked down at the blue ledger, his eyes filled with a bitter, ancient arrogance.
“Your father was a coward, Julian,” Viktor sneered. “He spent twenty years collecting paper like a clerk, hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone else to do the heavy lifting. Genevieve built this family! She built this hospital! She bought the politicians, the judges, and the police chiefs that kept your comfortable little life safe!”
“She bought them with stolen money,” Julian said. “And she tried to pay for her survival with my daughter’s blood.”
“A librarian’s child,” Viktor spat, opening the valve on the torch. The blue flame flared into an intense, roaring yellow cone of fire. “The Sterling family name ends with power, Julian—not with a sick premature girl in an incubator.”
Viktor plunged the torch toward the blue ledger.
BANG.
A single shot echoed like a cannon blast through the concrete vault.
The bullet struck the brass nozzle of the incendiary torch, shattering the high-pressure valve in a bright shower of sparks. The gas tank exploded in a violent burst of cold pressure, knocking Viktor backward into the heavy steel shelving unit.
The heavy shelves collapsed, raining hundreds of metal document boxes down on top of him with a deafening crash.
Julian didn't flinch. He lowered his weapon, stepped over the twisted metal debris, and reached down into the dust.
He picked up the blue leather ledger.
It was completely untouched.
Julian looked down at Viktor, who was pinned beneath two heavy steel shelf units, groaning as blood trickled from a cut on his forehead.
“The Sterling name doesn't belong to Genevieve,” Julian said, clutching the ledger to his chest. “And it certainly doesn't belong to you.”
Behind him, the heavy double doors burst open as SWAT officers in full tactical gear flooded into the vault, their high-powered flashlights cutting through the dust.
May you like
“Clear!” an officer shouted.
Julian walked past them without looking back, stepping out of the dark basement into the clean, cold elevator that would take him back to the seventh floor.
