Chapter 13 - The Flash Drive on the Table
The silver flash drive lay alone on the metal table, a tiny sliver of plastic and metal that held the weight of hundreds of ruined lives. Victoria stared at it as the marshals grabbed her elbows, lifting her unceremoniously out of the metal folding chair.
"Move," the first marshal ordered, his grip iron-tight around her bruised wrists.
Victoria didn't resist. Her knees felt weak beneath the heavy layers of the sequin dress, every step a painful reminder of the artificial grandeur she had worn just hours earlier. As they marched her out of the vault and down the long, sterile corridor toward the underground transport bay, the distant sound of city traffic filtered down through the ventilation grates—a normal world moving on, completely unaware of the wreckage left behind.
They loaded her into the back of an unmarked black van, the heavy metal doors slamming shut with a concussive thud that cut off the last sliver of light. Inside, it was pitch black except for the small, green indicator light of a dash camera mounted near the driver's partition.
The engine roared to life, and the van lurched forward, navigating the subterranean parking garage before turning out onto the wet, neon-lit asphalt of the city streets. Victoria sat slumped on the narrow bench seat, her hands cuffed in front of her, staring into the dark reflection of the window.
After what felt like hours of silent driving through twisting industrial alleyways, the van slowed down and came to a complete stop. The engine idled softly, but the doors did not open.
Victoria raised her head, squinting through the partition window toward the front seats. The two marshals were sitting in absolute silence, neither of them reaching for the door handles or calling in their arrival over the radio.
"Why aren't we moving?" Victoria asked, her voice trembling slightly in the enclosed space. "Is this the federal facility?"
Neither marshal answered. Instead, the driver reached up and switched off the dashboard lights, plunging the interior into absolute, suffocating darkness.
Before Victoria could cry out, the rear doors of the van clicked open. A cool gust of midnight air rushed into the cabin, carrying the scent of salt water and rotting dock wood. Standing in the open doorway, silhouetted against the amber glow of a distant harbor streetlight, wasn't a federal marshal at all.
It was Julian Vance, holding a rolled-up manila folder and a set of heavy wire cutters.
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"Get out, Victoria," Julian said, his voice completely devoid of its previous corporate polish, flat and dangerous. "Your arraignment isn't happening downtown tonight."
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