Chapter 7 - INTO THE VENTILATION SHAFTS
At 1:30 a.m., rain poured over the granite facade of the Old Portland Maritime Bank.
A black delivery van pulled into the dark alleyway behind the building.
Inside the van, Gideon, Harper, Mark, and two tactical operatives reviewed their wrist radios.
Harper was dressed in a sleek black tactical jumpsuit, her fiberglass walking boot reinforced with lightweight carbon-fiber plating.
Gideon reached over, carefully checking the straps on her body armor vest. His touch was firm, protective, and reassuring.
"We have seven minutes once Mark cuts the power grid," Gideon said, looking into her eyes. "I will be right behind you the entire time."
"I know," Harper said, pressing a short-barreled silenced pistol into her tactical holster—a weapon Gideon had taught her to clear and load three days ago.
"Mark," Gideon ordered. "Cut it."
Outside, the streetlights along 4th Avenue flickered and died.
The Maritime Bank's exterior security floodlights went pitch black.
"Move!" Gideon commanded.
Mark used a hydraulic spreader to pop the iron alley grate.
Within fifteen seconds, Gideon and Harper dropped into the dark sub-basement utility corridor beneath the bank.
The air was damp, smelling of old concrete, rust, and ozone.
Harper led the way, using a small red-lens flashlight to navigate the labyrinth of maintenance pipes. Her cane made quiet, rhythmic clicks against the concrete floor.
They reached the main ventilation shaft leading to Vault 404.
Harper unclipped a steel vent cover using a specialized multi-tool her father had designed.
"The air duct is four feet wide," Harper whispered, pointing her flashlight inside. "It runs twenty yards directly over the vault ceiling."
"After you, Ms. Sloan," Gideon murmured, his hand lingering gently on her waist as she climbed inside.
Harper crawled through the narrow metallic shaft, her carbon-fiber boot sliding smoothly behind her. Gideon followed closely, his broad frame filling the tight space.
They reached a heavy brass junction box built into the duct wall.
Harper pulled out a small set of tension wrenches.
She closed her eyes.
Listen to the heartbeat, her father's voice echoed in her memory.
She inserted the wrench into the brass mechanism, applying gentle, precise pressure.
Click.
Click.
Thud.
The halogen fire suppression system went completely offline.
Harper exhaled a long breath, a triumphant smile breaking across her face in the dark vent.
"Gas system disabled," Harper whispered back to Gideon.
Gideon reached forward, his hand squeezing her shoulder in praise. "Brilliant."
Suddenly, voices echoed from the gallery below them.
Gideon peeked through the vent louvers.
Standing directly outside Vault 404 were six heavily armed men wearing black tactical gear.
In the center stood Dmitri Volkov—a scar-faced Russian syndicate boss holding a heavy plasma cutting torch.
"Hurry up with that fuel tank!" Volkov shouted in a thick accent. "We burn the lock in three minutes!"
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Gideon drew his silenced weapon, leaning close to Harper's ear.
"Stay inside the vent," Gideon commanded in a cold whisper. "I'm clearing the floor."
