Chapter 4 - The Motel Room
Mike drove them to a cheap, roadside motel on the county line that accepted cash only.
He rented a room under a fake name and hurried them inside before anyone could see them.
The room smelled faintly of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.
Laura paced the worn carpet, her mind racing with sheer panic.
"I am a fugitive," Laura said, her voice shaking uncontrollably.
"They are going to put my face on every news channel in the state."
Elena sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, pulling Caleb into a tight hug.
"Vance must have issued the warrant to trap you," Mike explained, locking the deadbolt.
"If the police catch you, Vance gets the boy, and Vincent gets the key."
Laura realized the devastating reality of their situation.
"We cannot go to the FBI without the ledger," Laura reasoned.
"If we show up empty-handed, Vance will just arrest us and bury the evidence forever."
Mike nodded, checking the magazine of his service weapon.
"We need to get back inside that bank and retrieve the pickle jar," Mike stated.
"The bank is swarming with police right now looking for me," Laura argued.
"Not if we go through the old pneumatic tube maintenance tunnels," Laura suddenly realized.
She remembered the blueprints of the historic building from a renovation project years ago.
"There is an abandoned access hatch in the alley behind the bank."
"If I can get into the basement, I can bypass the lobby security cameras."
Elena looked terrified at the prospect of Laura going back into the lion's den.
"I will go with you," Mike offered immediately.
"No, you have to stay here and protect Elena and Caleb," Laura insisted.
"If I get caught, I am just a confused bank manager."
"If a rogue cop gets caught sneaking into a bank, they will shoot you on sight."
Mike reluctantly agreed, handing Laura his backup revolver.
"I don't know how to use this," Laura said, staring at the heavy weapon.
"Point and pull," Mike instructed grimly.
Laura left the motel as the sun began to set, hiding her face beneath a dark baseball cap.
She took a public bus back into the city, keeping her head down the entire ride.
She slipped into the dark alley behind Ridge Community Bank at eight o'clock at night.
The heavy iron maintenance hatch was exactly where the blueprints said it would be.
She pried it open with a rusted metal pipe and dropped down into the dark, dusty tunnel.
She crawled for ten minutes until she reached the basement utility room.
She slowly opened the door and crept up the back stairwell toward her private office.
The bank was eerily quiet, the lobby lights completely turned off.
She peeked through the blinds of her office window and stopped breathing.
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Richard Vincent was sitting comfortably in her desk chair.
And he was holding the pickle jar in his hands.
