Chapter 9 - The Race Against the Clock
The metallic scrape of the voice through the vent sent a shockwave of adrenaline straight through Arthur’s veins. He dropped to his knees, pressing his mouth as close to the rusted iron grating as possible.
“Who’s there?!” Arthur hissed urgently, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Identify yourself!”
“There’s no time for names, Arthur,” the raspy voice replied, coughing weakly before continuing. “Your uncle didn't just frame you for murder; he used Elena to orchestrate the entire gala massacre. They knew Caroline’s daughter survived. They needed you discredited so the board would strip you of your executive voting rights before midnight tonight. Once you're legally stripped of power, they can demolish the old east wing of the manor—and bury the vault forever.”
Arthur gripped the cold concrete bars of his cell, his mind racing through the terrifying implications. The east wing. That was where the original nursery had been located twenty years ago, right above the underground vault.
“Where is Lily?” Arthur demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of raw terror and blinding rage. “What did they do with my daughter?!”
“She’s locked in the mansion's panic room,” the voice whispered back, growing fainter by the second as if the speaker was losing consciousness. “Marcus’s men took her from protective custody twenty minutes ago. If you don't get out of here and reach the vault before the midnight board meeting, Lily will share her mother's fate.”
Before Arthur could ask another question, heavy boots echoed down the concrete hallway. A pair of armed correctional officers stopped in front of his cell, their faces stern and unyielding.
“Vance. Stand up against the back wall,” one guard commanded, unlocking the iron gate with a heavy iron key.
“I need to see Captain Thomas immediately,” Arthur said, standing his ground. “There’s been an abduction! My daughter is in imminent danger—!”
“Shut your mouth and move,” the second guard interrupted harshly, stepping into the cell and grabbing Arthur by the shoulder, shoving him against the cold wall to apply a fresh set of tight zip-ties.
As they dragged Arthur out of the holding cell, he realized this wasn't a standard prisoner transfer. The guards weren't taking him back to booking; they were marching him toward the service exit in the basement garage, away from the security cameras and official paperwork.
They were executing a quiet hit, orchestrated by Marcus from inside the department.
When they reached the dimly lit underground parking garage, a black unmarked van sat idling near the exit ramp. The rain was still pouring outside, drumming a heavy rhythm against the concrete roof. Two men in dark suits stood by the sliding side door of the van, waiting with cold, professional detachment.
“Get in,” one of the guards muttered, shoving Arthur hard toward the open vehicle.
Arthur stumbled, his shoulder slamming violently against the side of the van. As he regained his balance, his foot scraped against the pavement, and a sudden, brilliant flash of survival instinct took over.
Instead of getting inside, Arthur whipped around, driving his heel backward with every ounce of strength he possessed. The heavy brass key hidden in his shoe slipped loose, clattering loudly against the concrete floor. At the same time, Arthur slammed his elbow backward into the guard’s solar plexus, sending the man gasping to the ground.
The second guard drew a baton, lunging forward with a furious roar. “Grab him!”
Arthur ducked beneath the swinging baton, kicking out with his foot to send the heavy brass key sliding across the wet floor toward the shadows near a parked squad car. Without hesitating, Arthur dove after it, ignoring the heavy zip-ties cutting painfully into his wrists as the guards tackled him into the freezing puddles of rainwater.
“Got you, you son of a bitch!” the guard snarled, pressing his knee into Arthur’s spine and pinning him to the ground.
As they flipped him over to slap a heavy metal chain across his chest, Arthur caught a brief glimpse of a figure standing in the shadows near the garage exit—a tall, silhouetted woman watching the entire struggle with cold, calculated amusement.
It wasn't Marcus. It was Elena, wearing a fresh designer coat, holding a small digital tablet displaying a live countdown timer reading 11:45 PM.
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“Hurry up and throw him in the back,” Elena instructed coldly, her voice echoing in the concrete garage. “We only have fifteen minutes before the board officially votes to strip his inheritance. If the vault isn't opened by midnight, the legacy dies with him.”
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