Chapter 7 - Turning the Iron Key
Agent Vance closed his fingers around the heavy iron key, his gloved hand tightening instinctively as if he expected the metal to burn him. He didn't look at Mark or Elena; instead, he nodded to the two men standing by the front door, signaling them to move into the house.
"Check the perimeter," Vance instructed, his voice echoing in the narrow hallway. "And get some heavy-duty pry bars from the truck. If the lock is rusted shut, we're taking the hinges off."
"You won't need pry bars," Mark said bitterly, stepping aside to let them pass. He walked slowly back toward the dining room, his shoulders slumped, his blue button-down shirt torn and stained with dust. "The lock opens easily enough. It’s what's on the other side that won't cooperate."
Elena hurried past the agents, her white blazer catching on the doorframe as she rushed into the dining room to grab Toby and Lily. She pulled both children tightly against her sides, her face pale as death.
"Mom, what are they doing?" Toby asked, his voice shaking as he looked toward the hallway. "Are they going into the basement?"
"Keep your eyes closed," Elena commanded, her voice fierce yet trembling. "Don't look at the hallway, Toby. Don't look at anyone."
The two men in gray suits marched into the dining room, carrying a heavy metal toolbox and a crowbar. They ignored the family completely, moving directly toward the center of the room—right beneath the spot where the glass bowl of bread rolls sat on the sideboard.
One of the men knelt on the Persian rug, running his hands along the edge of a wide floorboard that looked slightly darker than the surrounding oak. With a sharp tug, he lifted a small brass flap set flush into the wood, revealing the keyhole Mark had spent years guarding with his life.
Agent Vance walked into the dining room, stepping over the threshold with measured strides. He looked down at the brass plate on the floor, then raised his eyes to meet Mark’s cold, unblinking gaze.
"After you, Mr. Reynolds," Vance said, holding the iron key out toward him. "You know the mechanism. Open it."
Mark didn't move. He stood by the sideboard, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. "Do it yourself. I’m done being the warden of this tomb."
Vance’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He didn't argue. He knelt down beside his associate, inserted the heavy iron key into the brass keyhole, and turned it.
The sound it made was not the clean click of a modern lock, but a deep, metallic groaning that vibrated up through the floorboards and rattled the glass bowl of bread rolls on the sideboard.
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Before the lock could fully disengage, a loud, frantic pounding erupted from directly beneath the floorboards—not from inside a room, but from inside the earth itself.
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