He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Understood, boss,” he said.

“I’ll hold the line.”

He slipped backward into the darkness of the utility closet.

His movements were completely silent, the mark of a man who had survived a dozen campaigns.

I was alone again in the damp crawlspace.

I looked back through the vent toward the guards at the vault.

They were setting the plastic charges on the heavy steel door hinges.

If I attacked them now, I would be outnumbered and outgunned.

I needed Marcus.

I needed his strength and his knowledge of the estate’s security bypasses.

I backed away from the vent opening, my knees scraping the gritty floor.

The damp air of the cellar clung to my skin like wet wool.

I remembered the old blueprints of the estate.

During the prohibition era, the original builder had installed a coal transport tunnel.

It ran directly from the old furnace room to the subterranean vaults.

It had been boarded up for fifty years, forgotten by everyone but me.

I crawled backward through the narrow utility space.