Chapter 5 - The Snake's Nest
The main branch of Central National Bank was a limestone fortress built in 1920, occupying an entire city block downtown. Massive bronze doors, marble pillars, and two dozen armed guards in dark uniforms stationed throughout the grand lobby.
At 10:00 AM on Friday morning, the bank was humming with activity. Wealthy clients, businessmen, and tellers filled the floor.
Outside, parked two blocks away in an alley, sat Marcus's black sedan.
Through pair of binoculars, Marcus watched the bank's main entrance. "Vanguard guards are posted at every door. They have portable biometric scanners. If your mom or I walk within fifty feet of that place, alarms will sound."
I sat in the back seat, wearing a blue oversized raincoat, a baseball cap pulled low over my forehead, and a school backpack over my shoulders. Inside the backpack were a small crowbar, a flashlight, and the brass rose key.
"Remember the plan, Leo," Claire said, her hands trembling as she adjusted my cap. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "You go through the subway ventilation grating on 4th Street. It leads directly into the lower boiler room of the bank. You don't talk to anyone. You find Deposit Box #409, use the key, get the drive, and come straight back. If anything looks wrong... you run. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you, Mom," I said softly.
She pulled me into a fierce embrace, pressing her lips to my forehead. "Tap, tap, tap," she whispered into my hair.
"Tap, tap, tap," I replied.
I opened the car door and stepped out into the drizzling rain.
I walked down 4th Street, keeping my head down, blending in with the crowds of commuters rushing past. I reached the steel ventilation grating set into the sidewalk behind a coffee shop.
Checking to make sure no one was looking, I dropped to my knees, pretending to dropped my loose coins. I pulled the small crowbar from my raincoat, jammed it into the rusty iron latch of the grating, and heaved.
POP!
The lock snapped. I lifted the heavy iron grate, slipped my thin body down into the dark, warm shaft, and pulled the grate back into place above me.
I dropped six feet onto a rusty metal catwalk.
The smell of dust, machine oil, and old steam filled my nose. I pulled out my flashlight, clicking it on, and followed the narrow brick conduit as it angled downward toward the basement of the bank.
Five minutes of crawling through dust and cobwebs brought me to an iron door marked: BOILER ROOM - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I pushed the door open an inch.
The room was vast, filled with roaring furnaces, giant copper pipes, and hot steam. A single janitor was sitting at a workbench across the room, wearing headphones, eating a sandwich.
I tiptoed past him, ducking behind the massive green boilers, and reached the heavy steel door leading to the vault corridor.
I pulled the brass rose key from my pocket.
According to the school tour guide from two months ago, the vault corridor required a master keycard during business hours, but the emergency fire escape route behind the safety deposit vault was accessible via an old mechanical lock—specifically designed for vintage safe-deposit box keys.
I slipped the brass rose key into the keyhole beside the heavy steel door.
CLICK.
The lock turned smoothly. The heavy door swung open six inches.
I slipped through into the cool, silent air of the Safe Deposit Vault.
The room was lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of polished steel deposit boxes. Golden halogen lights gleamed off the metal floor.
"Box 409... Box 409..." I whispered, running my eyes down the rows of steel plates.
Row 4. Column 9.
There it was. A small, brushed-steel door with the number 409 engraved into the metal.
I inserted the rose key into the box lock.
CLACK.
The small door popped open. Inside was a heavy, black metal tray.
I pulled the tray out and opened the hinged lid.
Resting on the velvet interior was an encrypted military-grade hard drive, a stack of original financial ledgers signed by Arthur Pendelton, and an old cassette tape labeled: PENDELTON_CONFESSION_1998.
"I got it," I breathed, my heart leaping with joy. "I got it!"
"Yes, you did, kid," a slick, smooth voice echoed from the vault entrance.
My blood ran ice cold.
I turned around slowly.
Standing in the vault doorway was Arthur Pendelton himself.
He was a tall, thin man in his sixties, with silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a three-thousand-dollar tailored pinstripe suit. He leaned casually on a gold-headed walking cane.
Behind him stood three towering guards in tactical gear, holding silenced handguns.
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And standing right beside Arthur... was Richard. His leg was bandaged, wearing a fresh suit, holding a bloody ice pack against his shattered cheekbone.
"Hello, Leo," Richard sneered, his dark eyes burning with psychotic triumph. "Did you really think we wouldn't track your mother's precious necklace?"
