Chapter 6 - The Trap Shuts
""Lockdown! Seal the vault!"" Higgins cried, rushing toward the heavy steel doorway, but he was violently shoved aside.
A man in a leather trench coat strode into the vault room, holding a silenced pistol. Behind him were two armed thugs. The leader was in his late fifties, with slicked-back silver hair, a scarred lip, and cold, reptilian green eyes.
Marcus Rivera.
Nora’s blood ran cold. The man who had destroyed her family’s life in Chicago was standing less than ten feet from her.
""Well, well,"" Rivera purred, his voice like gravel sliding down a chute. ""I was expecting Zane’s bulldog to come for the prize. Instead, I find a little seamstress playing secret agent.""
He stepped forward, the barrel of the pistol pointing directly at Nora’s chest. ""Step away from the box, young lady.""
Nora didn't move. She planted her feet firmly between Rivera and the metal drawer. Her mind raced, fear warring with pure, white-hot fury. ""You burned my father’s factory in Chicago. You killed people for fabric manifests.""
Rivera paused, an amused smirk touching his scarred mouth. ""Frank Langley’s girl? Small world. Your father was a stubborn idiot who didn't understand the cost of doing business. It seems stubbornness runs in the blood."" He gestured with the gun. ""Give me the ledger, Nora. Hand it over, and I might let you walk out of here alive. Zane Vargas is dead. His empire is mine.""
""Zane isn't dead,"" Nora said, her voice ringing clear in the reinforced chamber.
""Keep telling yourself that,"" Rivera sneered. He took another step forward, reaching out with an gloved hand to snatch the leather-bound book.
In that fraction of a second, Nora moved.
She didn't use brute strength. She used the lessons learned over a lifetime of working with tension, leverage, and fine tools. From her right sleeve, she slipped her eight-inch German tailor’s shears—heavy, razor-sharp forged steel. With a swift, downward arc, she stabbed the pointed tip through Rivera’s extended leather glove, pinning his hand directly to the solid mahogany viewing table.
Rivera shrieked in agony, dropping his weapon as blood spattered across the green felt. ""Shoot her!"" he roared.
The two guards raised their weapons, but before they could fire, the vault's overhead emergency alarm screamed to life. A smoke canister bounced through the doorway, erupting into a blinding cloud of white phosphorus smoke.
Through the fog, a dark figure moved with terrifying speed.
Zane Vargas burst into the room. Even with his arm bound in a splint, he struck with the ferocity of a hurricane. He drove the butt of his weapon into the first guard’s chin, sending him sprawling into the metal lockers, and swept the second guard’s legs out from under him with a crushing roundhouse kick.
Gunshots echoed in the confined space, deafening and disorienting.
Zane grabbed Nora around the waist, pulling her behind the reinforced steel door of the viewing booth. ""Nora! Are you hurt?!""
""I'm fine!"" she shouted over the alarms. ""The documents—""
""I have them,"" Zane said, his jacket bulging with the leather journal and the deed. He looked down at her face, seeing the fierce, unyielding fire in her hazel eyes, and his breath caught. ""You stabbed Marcus Rivera with scissors?""
""Tailor's shears,"" she corrected, breathless. ""There is a difference.""
A wild, fierce grin spread across Zane’s face. ""Remind me never to make you angry.""
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Rivera was on his knees, howling as he yanked the shears free from the wood, clutching his mangled hand. ""Vargas! You won't make it to the harbor! The council is mine! The city is mine!""
Zane stepped through the smoke, standing over his father’s murderer. His voice was as cold as the grave. ""You're wrong, Marcus. The city never belonged to you. And tonight, I’m going to make sure everyone knows what you really are.""
