Chapter 8 - The Vault Beneath the FloorboardsThe black SUV pulled into a subterranean parking garage beneath a nondescript industrial warehouse on the outskirts of Providence thirty minutes later. The doors locked automatically as they descended into the secure bowels of the complex.
Wren sat in the passenger seat, staring out the tinted window as the vehicle glided to a smooth halt. Her hands were still slightly trembling, but the initial wave of shock had hardened into something much colder and sharper.
"You're full of surprises, Mr. Vance," Wren said, turning her head to look at him as he shifted the SUV into park. "An upscale restaurant, a private militia, and now a underground bunker. What else are you hiding?"
"Only what's necessary to keep you alive," Nathaniel replied, cutting the engine. He reached back to check on Juno, who stood up and stretched her massive frame in the back seat. "The Boston Syndicate knows you're tied to the ledger now. That means you can never go back to your apartment, your job, or your old life. The board has shifted, Wren."
"And whose fault is that?" she challenged, her eyes flashing with anger. "If you hadn't orchestrated this ridiculous blind date, I'd still be folding napkins and worrying about rent instead of dodging bullets in a back alley!"
Nathaniel didn't look away from her. His expression softened just a fraction—a rare chink in his impenetrable armor. "You were running out of time, Wren. The hospital debt was just the first domino. Boston was moving in whether I set up table eleven or not. I just decided to control the board before they did."
He opened his door and stepped out, holding the heavy rear door open for Juno. Wren followed him out into the harshly lit concrete garage, her worn-out work shoes echoing against the floor.
They walked toward a heavy steel reinforced door set into the back wall of the parking structure. Nathaniel entered a six-digit code into a digital keypad, and with a heavy hydraulic hiss, the door swung inward to reveal a dimly lit subterranean room lined with industrial shelving, computer terminals, and in the very center, a massive, custom-built mechanical vault forged from cold-rolled steel.
"There it is," Nathaniel said, gesturing toward the vault. "Your father's legacy. And the only thing keeping the Boston Syndicate from tearing the North Atlantic shipping lanes apart."
Wren walked slowly toward the vault. Embedded in its center was a complex, beautiful array of interlocking brass gears, manual levers, and a central circular biometric socket shaped precisely to fit a human palm and forearm.
"It requires a physical torque sequence," Nathaniel explained, walking up beside her. "Your father designed it so that only someone with his exact bone density and mechanical torque could turn the master cylinder."
Wren reached out. She placed her right hand directly into the cold brass socket. The metal was frigid against her skin, but as she pressed her palm firmly into place, a series of internal clicks echoed through the vault door.
May you like
Clack. Whir. Click.
The gears began to turn on their own.
