Chapter 3
I pushed Eli behind me.
He did not resist.
That scared me more than if he had cried.
A child should resist strangers touching him.
A child should not know when to step behind cover.
From the vault hallway, three figures appeared.
All in dark tactical clothing.
All calm.
All wrong.
The middle one removed his mask.
Victor Slade.
Older than the file photo.
Scar along his jaw.
Eyes bright with the kind of patience that belongs to men who have hurt people and slept fine after.
“Detective Voss,” he said. “You are inconveniently alive.”
“You’re one to talk.”
His smile widened.
Harrison whimpered.
Slade looked at him with disgust.
“Harold. You opened the box, then triggered attention. Disappointing.”
“I didn’t trigger anything,” Harrison said.
“No,” Slade said, eyes moving to Eli. “The child did.”
Eli’s voice was steady behind me.
“You took my mother.”
Slade sighed.
“Your mother made promises she failed to keep.”
I kept my body between them.
The two men with Slade had weapons.
Compact pistols.
Suppressed.
Professional.
The robber at the front door started sobbing louder.
“I didn’t know, man. I didn’t know there was more.”
Slade glanced at him.
“You were paid to create noise. You created noise.”
The robber’s face crumpled.
Noise.
That was all the armed robbery had been.
A distraction.
A way to draw cameras, panic staff, and force Harrison toward the vault under chaos.
Except Eli had changed the script.
I looked at Slade.
“You can’t leave. Deadlock won’t open until federal override.”
Slade smiled.
“Unless someone with clearance authorizes release.”
His eyes dropped to Eli.
My stomach turned.
“You need the boy.”
“I need the device.”
Eli stepped slightly to my side.
“You need my bloodprint too.”
I looked down at him.
Bloodprint.
Of course.
Westbridge systems had been built for paranoia.
Device.
Biometric.
Living key.
Slade’s smile disappeared.
“You were always too much like Caroline.”
“She said you would say that.”
The red lights pulsed.
The bank customers huddled on the floor, trapped inside a nightmare that had become bigger than a robbery.
I needed help.
No phone.
No gun.
One useless guard.
One room full of civilians.
One child with a deadlock key.
I looked at Harrison.
He was crying silently, shaking so hard the chair legs rattled.
He had betrayed people.
Maybe for his daughter.
Maybe for money before that.
But he knew the bank.
“Harold,” I said.
He looked up.
“Is there a manual alarm line outside the cellular jammer?”
Slade’s eyes sharpened.
Harrison froze.
I stepped closer.
“Harold.”
He looked at Slade.
Then at Eli.
Maybe he saw the age.
Maybe he remembered Caroline.
Maybe he was simply done being afraid.
“Under the manager desk,” he whispered. “Hardwired panic line. Silent.”
Slade lifted his gun.
I moved.
Not toward Slade.
Toward the nearest table.
I kicked it hard, sending it skidding into the path between him and Harrison.
At the same time, Eli threw something small.
A round black disc.
It hit the floor and burst with a blast of white smoke.
Not enough to fill the room.
Enough to blind.
People screamed.
I grabbed Eli and dove behind the teller counter.
A bullet cracked into the wood above us.
The guard shouted.
Harrison crawled for his office.
I heard him sobbing.
Then a sharp click.
Maybe the alarm.
Maybe death.
Slade cursed from the smoke.
“Find the boy!”
Eli’s fingers dug into my sleeve.
For the first time, he looked like a child.
Not much.
But enough.
I whispered, “Stay with me.”
He nodded.
A teller beside us was shaking uncontrollably.
I took her hand and pressed it over Eli’s shoulder.
“Hold him.”
Her eyes widened.
“What are you doing?”
“Buying time.”
I grabbed the metal cash drawer from under the counter.
Heavy.
Good.
The smoke thinned.
One of Slade’s men rounded the counter.
I swung the drawer into his wrist.
His pistol dropped.
I drove my elbow into his throat, swept his knee, and slammed him down.
He hit hard.
I got the gun.
Finally.
The room narrowed.
Slade stood near the manager office, weapon raised.
Harrison lay half inside the doorway, bleeding from his arm but alive.
His hand was wrapped around the panic alarm handle.
Slade looked at me.
Then at Eli.
Then he laughed.
“Federal response time is seven minutes.”
May you like
I aimed center mass.
“Then you have six too many.”
