Chapter 7 - THE CRANK HANDLE
Vincent turned sharply toward Dorothy, his hand dropping instinctively toward his shoulder holster. "You crazy old woman—what are you doing here? You should be in bed!"
"I was in bed," Aunt Dot replied, her eyes flashing with a fierce, motherly fury that made even Vincent’s armed guards hesitate. "Then I remembered what your brother told me before he went down those stairs eleven years ago. He said, 'Dot, if Vincent ever comes back looking for the vault, don't let him near the crank.'"
She hefted the heavy iron handle in her hand like a baseball bat.
"And I always keep my promises to Leo."
"Shoot her!" Vincent barked at his guards, pointing a shaking finger toward Dorothy. "I don't care about the old lady, just get that crank—"
Before the guards could shift their aim, Marco and his men opened fire—not into the crowd, but directly into the overhead security lights lining the alleyway.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
In a fraction of a second, the alley plunged into absolute darkness, illuminated only by the frantic amber glow of the SUV hazard lights and the red laser sights cutting through the misty drizzle.
Chaos erupted.
Shouts echoed off the brick walls as Vincent’s guards scrambled to find cover, their laser sights sweeping wildly across the wet asphalt.
I dropped flat into the mud beside Dante as a bullet pinged off the metal dumpster inches from my head.
"Grace! Stay down!" Dante shouted over the din, firing two calculated shots into the tires of Vincent’s lead sedan.
The vehicle hissed and slumped heavily to one side, blocking the alley's exit completely.
In the center of the chaos, Aunt Dot didn't run. She marched straight through the crossfire toward the cellar doors, her orthopedic shoes splashing through the puddles with astonishing speed.
"Dante!" she yelled over the gunfire. "Catch!"
She hurled the heavy iron crank handle through the air.
Dante leaped up from the mud, snatching the handle out of the air with one hand, while using his other arm to shield me from a flying spray of brick chips.
"I've got it!" Dante roared.
He slammed the iron handle into the secondary socket on the side of the cellar frame.
"Vincent is moving toward the fire escape!" Marco shouted, firing another round as he tackled one of Vincent’s gunmen into a pile of cardboard boxes.
Dante grabbed the iron handle with both hands, planting his boots firmly against the wet concrete, and began to turn.
It didn't budge. The rust, the weight of the decades, and the locked hydraulic pins held fast.
"Help me, Grace!" Dante yelled, his face turning crimson with strain.
I scrambled up beside him, throwing my weight onto the iron bar alongside his hands. Together, we threw our entire body weight into the turn.
Screeeech—!
With a sound like tearing metal, the internal gears caught.
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The heavy iron cellar doors slowly began to rise, inch by agonizing inch, lifting into the night air as a thick, pale cloud of underground steam billowed up into the alleyway.
And from the darkness below, a hand—thin, pale, and trembling—reached up and grabbed the edge of the open concrete step.
