I moved slowly, checking my weapon by feel.

I had twelve rounds left in the magazine.

The tunnel began to slope upward.

Ahead, a faint sliver of light cut through the darkness from a rusty ventilation grate.

I crept toward it, holding my breath.

Through the metal slits, I could see the main basement corridor.

Three of Caleb’s mercenaries were standing near the vault door, holding a heavy battering ram.

Another man stood near the corner, holding a submachine gun, his back turned to my position.

I reached for the screws holding the grate in place.

They were old and rusted, likely to make noise if I forced them.

I applied steady pressure with the crowbar, hoping the damp air would muffle the creak of the metal.

The first screw gave way with a tiny pop.

The guard at the corner paused, turning his head slightly toward the vent.

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He listened for a long moment, then shrugged, turning back to his companions.

“Hurry up with that charge,” he muttered. “Caleb wants this done before the police line gets any closer.”