The darkness in the vault was not empty. It was a thick, viscous medium that tasted of copper and ancient dust. When the power died, the silence that followed was more violent than a scream. Sarafina stood frozen, her fingers still clutching the yellowed photograph of the woman who looked far too much like her. Behind her, the rhythmic thud of heavy boots on the stairs outside echoed through the steel walls, a steady, industrial heartbeat of approaching death.
Joseph did not move. Even in the absolute gloom, she could feel the change in his posture. He was no longer the weary aristocrat or the taunting ghost. He had become a statue of lethal intent.
"Check your six, Sarafina," he whispered.
The sound of his voice was a low vibration that bypassed her ears and settled directly in her spine. A red laser dot suddenly bloomed against the stainless steel of the safety deposit boxes, dancing like a frantic insect before settling on the center of her chest.
"Down," Joseph commanded.
He didn't wait for her to comply. His hand, large and unyielding, clamped onto her shoulder and shoved her toward the floor just as the vault door groaned under the force of a hydraulic breach. The air was suddenly shredded by the staccato rhythm of suppressed gunfire. Sparks showered the room like dying stars, reflecting off the polished metal surfaces in jagged, blinding strobes.
Sarafina rolled behind the heavy oak table, her lungs burning with the smell of cordite and pulverized stone. Her training took over, a cold, mechanical reflex that pushed the fear into a small, dark corner of her mind. She drew the subcompact pistol from her thigh holster, the metal slick with her own sweat.
This was the law she had sworn to uphold. The tactical team outside wore the same Kevlar and carried the same equipment as the men she had trained with at the academy. They were the "Sea of Blue," sent here to erase the evidence of their own rot. They weren't here to arrest. They were here to sanitize.
"Left corner," Joseph rasped.
He was crouched near the open vault door, his own weapon, a heavy, matte black handgun spitting fire into the hallway. Every shot he took was a calculated note in a symphony of violence. He moved with a terrifying, predatory economy, his eyes never leaving the breach.
Sarafina popped up from behind the table, her sights settling on a shadowed figure in the doorway. She squeezed the trigger twice. The recoil was a familiar, jarring comfort in her palms. The figure crumpled, the heavy thud of a body in tactical gear hitting the floor punctuating the chaos.
She was fighting alongside the monster. She was protecting the man she had intended to kill to ensure the men who wore her father's badge didn't kill her first. The irony was a bitter, metallic tang on her tongue.
"They're using gas," Joseph warned, his voice straining. "We have less than sixty seconds before this room becomes a coffin."
He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the back of the vault where the shadows were deepest. He kicked aside a heavy metal trolley, revealing a small, rusted grate set into the floor. It was a service tunnel, a relic of the building's original Victorian foundation that had been forgotten by the modern digital blueprints.
"Go," he ordered.
Sarafina didn't hesitate. She holstered her weapon and slid into the narrow, damp hole, her silk dress tearing against the jagged edges of the iron. The air below was stagnant and smelled of river mud, but it was oxygen. She reached back up, her hand searching the darkness for his.
Another volley of gunfire erupted above, the sound magnified and distorted by the narrow confines of the tunnel. She heard a sharp, muffled grunt of pain, followed by the heavy, wet sound of something hitting the concrete.
"Joseph," she hissed, her heart leaping into her throat.
A moment later, his weight dropped into the tunnel beside her. He fell heavily, his shoulder slamming into the brick wall. In the dim light of her phone screen, Sarafina saw the dark, spreading stain on the shoulder of his bespoke wool coat. The fabric was soaked, the deep crimson looking black in the artificial glow.
He had taken a round meant for the space she had occupied a second before.
"Don't stop," Joseph commanded, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. "The exit is three hundred yards East. It opens into the storm drains by the pier."
He was gray, his usual tan replaced by a sickly, waxy pallor. The weariness she had seen in the opera house had returned, but this time it was fueled by blood loss rather than cynicism. Sarafina grabbed his uninjured arm, draping it over her shoulders. She was small, but she was made of iron and grief, and she refused to let the darkness take him before she had the truth.
They crawled through the filth and the forgotten history of Blackwood, the sounds of the tactical team fading into a distant, subterranean hum. By the time they reached the rusted ladder leading to the surface, Joseph was leaning almost entirely on her. His skin was clammy, and the scent of his sandalwood cologne was being drowned out by the metallic odor of his injury.
Sarafina pushed the heavy manhole cover aside, emerging into the biting cold of the rain-slicked alley behind the pier. Her car was exactly where she had left it, a nondescript silver sedan that looked like a ghost in the morning mist.
She shoved Joseph into the passenger seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he lost consciousness. His hand, still clutching the heavy black handgun, fell limp into his lap.
Sarafina scrambled into the driver's seat, her fingers trembling as she shoved the key into the ignition. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her face was smeared with soot and blood, her hair a wild, tangled mess. She looked like a survivor. She looked like a criminal.
She threw the car into gear, the tires screaming as she peeled away from the curb. In her peripheral vision, she saw the black SUVs of the tactical team rounding the corner, their sirens silent but their intent loud.
She reached over and grabbed the "Black Ledger" she had tucked into her waistband, tossing it into the glove box. Then, she reached for Joseph's hand. His skin was freezing, but his pulse was still there, a stubborn, thready beat against her thumb.
She realized then that she was no longer driving toward a precinct or a sanctuary. She was driving toward the only man who knew the truth, and she was the only thing keeping his heart beating.
The car's GPS chirped, a single message flashing on the screen from an unknown sender. It wasn't a letter. It was a live video feed of her own car, taken from a drone hovering directly above her.
Below the video, a single line of text appeared.
The hunt is more fun when the prey thinks it's escaped. See you at the safehouse, Sara.
Sarafina floored the accelerator, the engine roaring as she vanished into the gray embrace of the coastal fog, knowing that the man bleeding out beside her was both her greatest enemy and her only hope for survival.