Meanwhile, Marcel tore the bag from Rhea's shoulder. "Leave the stuff. Go."
Rhea was confused. She had never seen Marcel this panicked before. Even in the worst life-and-death situations, Marcel had always been calm, his composure unshakable. That alone made her obey his instructions.
She ran out but paused, looking back when she saw he wasn't behind her. "You are not following?"
Marcel's voice was firm. "I am coming."
She crawled into the vent and waited for him. When he finally came through she was expecting him to follow, but instead Marcel closed it behind her. His voice came through, commanding, leaving no room for negotiation. "Run. Don't stop. No contact unless I call you."
Rhea's heart clenched. "No wait! What are you doing?"
"Go," Marcel barked, his tone sharp and absolute.
Rhea knew she shouldn't delay. She swallowed her protest and did as told, crawling back through the vent. Dex guided her, his voice steady, helping her reach another exit that led to the tunnels.
Meanwhile, Marcel stayed behind. He could only wait to be caught. The elevator was already descending to the vault level. He was buying time, ensuring his team had a chance to escape. He had invited them into this job, and their safety was his responsibility. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself.
Soon, the doors slid open. Three men seized him instantly, forcing him down hard onto his knees. A fist cracked against his face, then another, knuckles splitting skin and bone. His vision blurred, stars bursting behind his eyes. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and hot.
When the beating stopped, he spat it out, his head hanging low.
Then, suddenly, the grip on his arms loosened. The men stepped aside, leaving Marcel collapsed forward, his posture like a supplicant bowing before an unseen altar. His breath came ragged, blood dripping from his lips onto the cold floor.
That was when he saw a pair of red heels, sharp and gleaming against the floor. The tip of an expensive stiletto pressed beneath his chin, forcing his head upward.
"Well, well, well," came the voice, smooth and venomous. Samphire. Her eyes glittered with cruel amusement. "What do we have here? A thief."
Marcel swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully, bloody saliva sliding down his throat. Samphire's hand shot out, gripping his hair, yanking his head back until his neck strained. From her thigh she drew a pistol, the holster snapping open with practiced ease. With a click, the muzzle pressed beneath his chin.
"You must have a death wish to break into this vault," she hissed, her gaze locking with his.
But Marcel's eyes bloodshot and bruised remained fearless, unsettling in their defiance.
Her anger flared. "Are you going to talk? If you don't, I will put a bullet through your head."
The silence between them stretched the tension in the air intense. Marcel seemed to weigh her, as though measuring the worth of her threat. Then, hoarse but steady, he cleared his throat. "I will talk… but only with your boss. Not you."
Samphire's teeth clenched. Fury surged. She slapped him hard, the sound echoing in the chamber. "Who do you think you are, to demand his presence?"
Marcel spat blood onto the floor, his voice unwavering. "I will only speak to him."
Her hand rose again, trembling with rage, ready to strike. But before she could, footsteps echoed behind her slow and deliberate.
Samphire turned, her expression faltering as she saw Dagur approached. His presence was suffocating, a shadow that seemed to thicken the air itself. His aura carried the weight of something ancient and merciless, pressing against the skin like cold iron.
Every step radiated menace, as though the ground recoiled beneath him. His calm expression only deepened the dread. He had the composure of a predator who had no need to bare his fangs. He was like a demon cloaked in human form, power bending the room to his will.
"What did he take?" Dagur asked, his voice low, resonant and commanding silence.
One of the guards picked up the black bags and emptied them onto the table. Gems spilled across the surface, jewels glittered, stacks of money and gold bars clattered in a heap. Yet Dagur's eyes barely flicked toward them.
It was the small velvet drawstring bag that drew his attention. He reached for it, his fingers steady, and opened it. Inside lay half of the token his grandfather had entrusted to him before his passing. The jewels and gold were mere distractions. This was the true target.
Dagur raised the token to the light, its surface gleaming faintly. The cold chill around him grew stronger, the air itself tightening as though the chamber bowed to his presence. He placed the token back into the bag with reverence, then turned, his steps deliberate, each one sending tremors through Marcel's heart.
"I know you didn't pull this by yourself," Dagur said, his voice like a blade. "So where are your accomplices?"
Marcel's lips pressed together, refusing to speak. His silence was defiance, but it was also a gamble.
Dagur's lips curled into an evil smirk. "It's alright if you don't want to talk. I can make one of them talk. Especially the short one with a bob, she looks like she would be easy to break."
Marcel's heart shattered into pieces. He hadn't known. Not only had they caught him, but his entire team as well. They had even waited until Eli, Lila, and Rhea were together in the van, about to drive off. Surrounded by heavily armed security, they hadn't stood a chance. They surrendered.
Marcel had been clinging to the hope that his team had escaped. But now, that hope was crushed. His expression flickered with panic. It was so fleeting that no one noticed, except Dagur.
Dagur's voice was cold. "Since you won't talk, you're of no use to me." He turned to Samphire and said, "Don't dirty my floors."
Samphire smirked, her eyes gleaming with malice, ready to execute him on the spot. She gripped Marcel's hair, pressing the muzzle of her gun beneath his chin.
"Wait," Marcel rasped suddenly. Dagur paused mid-step, not looking back.
"I will talk," Marcel said.
Samphire sneered at his delay tactics. "Boss, there's no need to listen to this fucker's lies. He is just buying time." Her grip tightened, the gun digging harder into his skin.
Marcel's voice was hoarse but steady. "I will talk. But on one condition… you let them go."
Dagur turned, laughter spilling out, sharp and hollow. The smile never reached his eyes. In an instant, his expression turned cold and deadly.
"You think you are in the position to make conditions?" The room froze, the weight of his words pressing down like a blade.