Chapter 4 - THE IRON VAULTThe air in the sub-basement was freezing, smelling of stale moisture and old iron. Zara dropped off the bottom rung of the ladder, her boots hitting the concrete floor with a soft thud.
The corridor ahead was narrow, lined with thick, insulated steel doors that had once kept beef carcasses fresh. Now, they held men.
She moved down the hall, checking each heavy lock until she reached the end of the corridor—Door 409. A flickering amber light pulsed above the reinforced glass viewport.
She peered inside.
Vincent DeLuca was strapped to a heavy iron chair in the center of the sterile, white-tiled room. His white shirt was torn and stained with dark blood, his face bruised and swollen, a deep laceration across his jawline. Yet, even bound and battered, his head was unbowed. His eyes were fixed straight ahead with a terrifying, predatory calm.
Standing beside him was a tall, skeletal man in an expensive charcoal suit, holding a pair of heavy wire cutters. Salvatore Vance.
"You really thought you could outsmart me, Vincent?" Vance's voice echoed faintly through the reinforced glass speaker system. "You built an empire on blood and loyalty, but loyalty is just a currency waiting for a higher bidder. And your little social worker? She's going to watch you bleed out in installments."
Zara’s blood ran cold. She didn't wait.
She raised the heavy breaching charge she had pulled from her tactical pack, slapped it against the magnetic lock of Door 409, and punched the remote detonator on her wrist.
BOOM.
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The blast blew the steel hinges inward in a shower of sparks and smoke. Before the dust could even settle, Zara stepped through the threshold, her pistol leveled squarely at Salvatore Vance's chest.
"Drop the cutters, Salvatore," Zara said, her voice cutting through the smoke like a razor. "The party's over."
