Chapter 6 - THE VINTAGE MAP
The unfamiliar voice on the radio sent a chill deeper than the damp tunnel air.
"Who is that?" I whispered.
Hale lay gasping against the brick wall on the other side of the grate. His skin was gray, his eyes darting frantically. The oleander toxicity was rapidly taking over his system.
"The militia," Hale choked out, clutching his chest. "The Mexican cartel... I hired them to guard Owen’s compound. I paid them with Vance Energy funds."
"And now they want the rest of the money," Owen said, realizing the terrifying truth. "They didn't just come to help you rob the vault. They came to take the entire pot."
The sound of heavy boots and tactical gear echoed from the far end of the tunnel behind Hale. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness.
"They're going to kill us all," Preston whimpered, trying to crawl backward into the wall.
I looked at the heavy iron grate separating us. It was rusted, locked with an ancient padlock.
"Caroline, the gun!" I yelled.
Caroline scrambled in the dirt, found the handgun Hale had kicked away, and slid it back under the bars to me.
I aimed at the padlock and fired. Sparks flew, the metal shattered, and Owen kicked the grate open.
"Help me get him up," Caroline grunted, hauling Arthur to his feet. The billionaire was weak, but the antidote was working.
As we rushed past Hale, the dying doctor reached out and grabbed my ankle. His grip was surprisingly strong.
"The map," Hale wheezed, blood flecking his lips. "Clara... your father's map."
I froze, looking down at him. "What about it?"
"It doesn't just show the tunnels," Hale gasped. "It shows the pressure valves. The old steam pipes. Turn them."
Before I could ask what he meant, a bullet ricocheted off the brick wall inches from my head.
"Move!" Owen roared, yanking me forward.
We sprinted blindly through the winding corridors. The cartel mercenaries were closing in, their tactical lights bouncing wildly off the curved brick walls.
I pulled my father's map from my pocket, unfolding it as we ran. The ink was faded, drawn on old architectural parchment.
Pressure valves.
I scanned the schematic. The tunnel we were in passed directly beneath the steakhouse's industrial kitchen, built over the original 1920s boiler room.
"There!" I pointed. Up ahead, a massive iron wheel was embedded in the brick wall, covered in decades of dust and rust.
"What does it do?" Caroline asked, dragging her father.
"It releases the high-pressure steam from the main line," I said. "It'll flood this tunnel with boiling vapor. It'll block them."
Owen grabbed the wheel. He strained, the muscles in his arms corded and tight, but the rust held it fast.
"It won't budge!" Owen yelled as the footsteps behind us grew louder.
"Let me," Preston suddenly said.
We all looked at him. The cowardly son-in-law, bleeding from his thigh, hobbled forward.
"I can't run anymore," Preston said, his face pale and sweating. "Take Caroline. Take Arthur. Just... tell the police I didn't know about the murder. I just wanted the money."
Preston wrapped his hands around the iron wheel. "Go! Now!"
Owen didn't argue. He grabbed Arthur's other arm, and we ran.
I looked back just as the first mercenary rounded the corner, raising an assault rifle.
Preston let out a guttural scream, throwing his entire body weight into the wheel. With a deafening screech of tearing metal, the valve broke free.
A massive pipe in the ceiling ruptured. White, blinding steam erupted into the tunnel at two hundred degrees.
The mercenaries screamed as the vapor hit them. Preston disappeared entirely into the white cloud.
The steam created an impenetrable, boiling wall behind us.
We burst through a heavy wooden door at the end of the tunnel and stumbled out into the cool, rainy Dallas night. We were in an alleyway, two blocks from the steakhouse. Sirens wailed in the distance.
"We made it," Caroline sobbed, collapsing onto the wet asphalt next to her father. "Preston... he saved us."
Arthur sat on the curb, gasping the cool air. He looked at Owen. "You're safe, son. We're all safe."
But Owen wasn't looking at his father. He was staring at a piece of paper he had pulled from his own pocket.
He walked over to me, his eyes heavy with a sorrow I didn't understand.
"Clara," Owen whispered. "When your father found me in Mexico... he didn't just try to break me out. He had an extraction plan."
Owen pressed the paper into my hand.
I looked down. It was two first-class flight tickets to Switzerland, dated five years ago.
One was in the name of Owen Vance.
The other was in the name of Thomas Bennett.
"My father," I breathed.
"He wasn't just an accountant," Owen said, reaching into his pocket again. "He was the one who uncovered the cartel connection before anyone else. He died protecting me."
Owen held out his hand. Resting in his palm was a silver rosary.
"He dropped this when the car went over the cliff," Owen said softly. "I've kept it ever since."
Tears streamed down my face. I reached out and took my father's rosary, wrapping the cold silver beads around my trembling fingers.
"Thank you," I cried.
But as I clutched the rosary, a dark figure stepped out from the shadows of the alley, blocking our path to the main street.
It was the cartel leader. And he was holding Caroline’s husband, Preston, by the throat, a gun pressed to his temple.
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Preston wasn't dead. He had surrendered.
"The steam was a nice trick," the cartel leader said in broken English. "But I still want my money. And the billionaire is going to transfer it right now."
