Chapter 37 - Blood on the Iron
"You're lying," I said flatly. "You let people like my grandfather live because they hold the ledger. The moment I open that cylinder, we are loose ends."
Vance's smile faded into a thin, razor-sharp line. He sighed, adjusting the leather cuffs of his gloves. "I admire Donald's blood in you, Clara. Truly, I do. But you are vastly overestimating your leverage."
He nodded subtly toward the operator on his left.
Before Mark could react, the man lunged forward, sweeping Mark's legs out from under him and driving a heavy combat boot into his ribs with brutal precision. Mark crashed onto the cold floor, coughing violently, blood immediately spilling past his lips.
"Mark!" I screamed, lunging forward, but the second guard caught me by the collar of my jacket, pinning my arms behind my back with vice-like strength.
"The medallion, Clara," Vance repeated, stepping toward the bronze cylinder embedded in the bedrock. "Or the next round goes through your husband's knee. And trust me, rural hospitals are notoriously slow with reconstructive surgery."
"Stop!" I gasped, fighting against the operative's grip. "Stop! It's upstairs! In the bedroom, top drawer of the mahogany dresser, inside a blue velvet box!"
Vance signaled his man, who eased the pressure off Mark's chest, though Mark remained on the floor, groaning in agony, his face twisted in pain.
"Go fetch it," Vance commanded the second operative. The man gave a short nod and turned, sprinting up the cellar steps two at a time.
Silence fell over the basement, broken only by Mark’s labored breathing and the steady drip of condensation from the old ceiling timbers. Julianne stood frozen against the stone wall, her eyes darting between Vance and the bronze cylinder.
"You won't get away with this, Harrison," Julianne whispered. "The authorities in Washington already know you reactivated this dossier."
"The authorities in Washington work for me, Julianne," Vance replied without turning his head. "They have for thirty years."
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as the operative ransacked the bedroom. After a few agonizing minutes, heavy steps descended the stairs. The guard returned, holding up the tarnished bronze medal dangling from its delicate silver chain.
Vance took it between his gloved fingertips, inspecting the worn Latin inscription around the rim. A look of almost religious reverence crossed his face.
"Donald... you stubborn old bastard," Vance murmured. "Hiding an empire behind the face of a saint."
He knelt beside the bronze cylinder in the floor, fitting the notched edges of the medallion into the circular indentation in the center of the naval seal. He turned it clockwise.
A heavy, mechanical *click* echoed from within the bedrock.
May you like
"Hold on to them," Vance ordered without looking back. "If they move, kill them."
He grabbed the heavy iron handles on either side of the lid and twisted. With a deep hiss of ancient air escaping an airtight vacuum, the seal broke.
