Chapter 10 - The Vault
Clara threw herself to the marble floor.
A split second later, the massive glass windows of the ballroom shattered inward.
Tear gas canisters bounced across the floor, hissing thick white smoke into the crowd.
Panic erupted.
Screams filled the air as two hundred elite guests scrambled for the exits.
The chandelier lights flickered and died.
Total darkness.
Someone grabbed Clara's arm, hauling her to her feet.
She swung her fists wildly until a familiar voice barked in her ear.
"It's me!"
Adriano.
He was wearing night-vision goggles.
He threw a gas mask over her face and pulled her through the chaotic, blinded crowd.
Gunfire popped in the distance.
"Where is Lucas?" Clara shouted over the noise.
"He broke out of the basement and hacked my comms," Adriano yelled back, kicking open a fire exit.
"He set off the gas."
"He's buying us time."
They burst out into the freezing alleyway.
The black SUV was waiting, engine roaring.
They dove inside, and the car sped off before the doors even closed.
Clara ripped off the gas mask, gasping for air.
She opened her trembling hand.
The silver key gleamed in the dim light of the streetlamps.
Adriano stared at it, a look of pure triumph crossing his face.
"You actually did it."
"I told you I wasn't useless," Clara spat, adrenaline still surging through her veins.
"Drive to the First National Depository."
"Now."
The bank was a fortress, but Adriano's name cleared the late-night security checkpoints instantly.
They walked down the sterile, brightly lit hallway to the private vaults.
Clara typed in her passcode.
The massive steel door clicked open.
They stepped inside.
Wall-to-wall safety deposit boxes.
Clara walked to box number 814.
She slid Martin's key into the lock.
It turned perfectly.
She pulled the metal drawer out and set it on the table.
Inside rested a thick, black leather-bound ledger.
The proof of every stolen dime.
The proof that would destroy Martin Hale forever.
A massive wave of relief crashed over Clara.
It was over.
She had won.
She reached out and flipped open the cover of the ledger to confirm the accounts.
Her breath hitched.
Her blood ran freezing cold.
The pages were completely blank.
Every single one.
Except for the very last page.
Taped to the paper was a fresh, high-definition photograph.
It showed Clara, standing in her emerald dress at the gala, slipping the key from Martin's neck.
Tucked beneath the photo was a sticky note.
The handwriting was elegantly cursive.
A handwriting Clara hadn't seen in five years.
A cell phone lying at the bottom of the empty metal box suddenly began to ring.
Clara picked it up with a shaking hand and put it to her ear.
"Hello?" she whispered.
A soft, familiar voice drifted through the speaker.
"You always were too smart for your own good, sweetie."
Clara dropped the ledger.
May you like
It was her mother.
"You should have picked the lawyer, Clara."
