She talks amiably about the bank and its history. I’m barely paying attention. My heart’s racing as we’re taken deeper and I can’t believe this is actually working. When we arrive in the secure room which contains the boxes, I feel like I might be sick. Ms. Shippens barely notices though as she quickly and professionally unlocks and removes a long metallic container, sliding it straight from the wall. She places it down on a table at the center of the room.
“If you need anything else, I’ll be in the hall, and thank you for your trust.” She shows her teeth in a wide, fake smile, and disappears.
I go to rip open the lid but Brenden stops me. He waits, watching the door with a calculating frown.
“That was too easy,” he says quietly.
“We’re here. What else do you want?”
“I don’t know.” Another few seconds before he pulls back. “Alright, open it.”
I pull the lid, my heart hammering, hands clammy and sticky. I keep waiting for something to jump out and attack us.
Instead, there’s only a single book. It’s a ledger and not an expensive one: black paper cover, metal rings, thin paper on the inside. The sort of thing you could get at a business supply store for less than a dollar.
But it’s filled with writing. Cramped, tight, neat penmanship. I note times, descriptions, places I recognize, and dozens of names. I’m tempted to sit down and start parsing through it, but Brenden’s already shoving the box back into its place in the wall and locking it tight.
“Hold on to that,” he says, tucking the key into his pocket. “And stay close.”
“Brenden, I think this is it.” I force myself to close the cover and hold it toward him. “Seriously, I think we found it.”
“We’ll see.” He steps into the hall. Ms. Shippens is waiting nearby. She seems surprised we appeared.
“Done already?” she asks quickly. “Are you sure there isn’t more business inside? Did you close the box and lock it already? Perhaps you should wait here?—“
“No, we’re done.” Brenden strides past her, not pausing and not bothering to use his fake upper-crust accent. I have to hurry to keep up.
“Wait a moment. Can’t we get you tea? Would you like an office to use? We have accommodations?—“
“No, thank you.” Brenden reaches the end of the hall that leads to the main atrium but stops dead in his tracks. I bump into him and Ms. Shippens lets out a light yelp.
Several men are near the door. Mr. Wright is talking to them quietly. Each is dressed in dark clothes, dark jeans, dark jackets, and a cold dread flutters down my spine. I’ve seen men like these before, though not many times.
Gor calls them greasers. They’re the lube in the machinery of the family. They’re the blood that keeps the pumps drawing money and talent into the grinder of the Brotherhood.
Brenden moves fast. He twists back and grabs Ms. Shippens by the arm. Something metal flashes and suddenly he’s got a knife to her throat.
“Don’t scream.” He sounds very calm. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Say yes if you understand.”
“Yes.” Her voice comes out in a strained groan. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on. I was just told to keep you busy?—“
“How do we get out of here?”
“The front?—“
Brenden presses the blade tighter. The poor woman gags. “Another exit.”
“Back… back this way.”
“Take us. Move fast.”
Ms. Shippens turns. Brenden lowers the knife but keeps it close against her back. I swallow against a lump of sickness in the back of my throat, afraid I might throw up from terror. Behind us, the greasers are coming, likely summoned by the bank manager from the moment we came through the doors. They pretended like everything was okay to keep us from trying to escape, and now they’re going to catch us and kill us.
“Hurry,” Brenden hisses. “Which way?”
Ms. Shippens takes us through several more hallways, past offices and other workers. A man drops files, eyes fixed in fright on the knife in Brenden’s hand. Another woman lets out a cry of alarm.
“Here, down here, there’s a back door, but the fire alarm—“ Ms. Shippens takes us into a back stairwell and straight ahead is an emergency exit.