"Fuck you, Dex! Do you want to swap jobs?" Rhea snapped.
"I am sorry," Dex managed between fits of laughter. "But damn, that was hilarious."
Marcel's tone cut through firmly. "Ignore him. Keep moving."
Meanwhile, Eli reached the server room once more. He swiped the card, and this time the reader blinked green with a soft click.
"I'll keep watch," Lila said, positioning herself outside.
Eli nodded, closing the door behind him. "Dex, where do I place it?"
Dex, watching through Eli's camera feed, directed him. "There. Hide it behind the cables."
Eli moved wires aside and carefully installed the transmitter. His voice came through the comms, uncertain. "Good?"
Dex smirked in the van, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. "The mansion is mine now."
Eli heard Lila's whisper, sharp and urgent. "Don't come out yet."
She was pressed into the corner of a corridor, her breath steady as she watched two men in suits rush past. Their faces were pale, their movements frantic. They didn't even notice her, too consumed by panic. Lila was all ready to knock them out but it turns out they didn't see her.
"Something's up," she murmured. "They are acting like the roof is about to collapse."
Dex's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "I am tapped into the comms. Ohh they are panicked, all right. Their boss is coming."
Marcel's tone cut through the chatter, steady as stone. "The plan stays the same."
Eli and Lila slipped back into the ballroom, blending seamlessly with the crowd. The event was in full swing with laughter, music, the clink of glasses but neither of them paid it any mind.
Meanwhile, Marcel's boots echoed softly in the tunnel, his flashlight beam slicing through the humid dark. Beside him, Rhea moved with quiet precision, her breath steady despite the claustrophobic passage.
At the end of the corridor, Marcel stopped before a vent painted over, its edges sealed tightly. He raised his foot and kicked once and the metal groaned. Twice and the paint cracked. The third strike sent the vent clattering inward.
He crouched, crawled through, and extended a hand back. "I am in," he whispered, pulling Rhea up beside him.
Dex's voice crackled in their ears, sharp and controlled. "Coast is clear. First right, then left."
Marcel nodded, guiding Rhea forward. The basement stretched like a labyrinth, shadows pressing close.
Then Dex hissed suddenly. "Stop."
Marcel pressed his back against the cold wall, the chill seeping through his jacket. Rhea mirrored his movements, her breathing shallow, eyes fixed ahead. A woman in a crisp security uniform passed by, her footsteps measured, gaze sweeping the corridor with mechanical precision. Neither Marcel nor Rhea dared to move, their breaths held until she disappeared around the corner.
"Go," Dex's voice crackled in their ears. "Two more turns. You will find the room with the vent to the vault."
They moved quickly but silently, entering a stark room. Its walls were bare, save for a single table and chair. The atmosphere was sterile and oppressive, more like an interrogation chamber than storage.
Rhea frowned. "Where's the vent?"
Marcel scanned the walls, his eyes narrowing until he spotted the faint outline near the floor. He crouched, prying it open with a grunt. Metal scraped against stone, the sound harsh in the silence.
He crawled inside, the narrow shaft forcing him forward on hands and knees. Rhea followed, closing the vent behind them.
The passage twisted sharply, three turns before sloping downward. Their breaths grew shallow in the confined space, the sound of movement muffled by steel.
When the vent leveled out again, they crawled only a short distance before reaching another grate. Marcel braced himself, then kicked hard. The vent burst open, clattering against the floor.
They stepped out into a chamber heavy with silence. "Damn, I can finally breathe," Rhea muttered, her chest rising and falling as she steadied herself.
Marcel's eyes, however, were already fixed on the vault door. Its serpentine engravings gleamed faintly in the dim light, curling across the steel like living patterns. He turned to her, his tone clipped. "You better start working."
Rhea knelt, her fingers brushing the cold steel. "I am on it."
Marcel opened the pack, laying out her tools with deliberate care. There were picks, sensors, and the delicate instruments of her craft.
Rhea spread her tools neatly across the floor, her hands trembling as she adjusted the delicate picks. The gyroscopic tumblers inside the lock hummed faintly, a rhythm that seemed to mock her. She tried once but she had put too much pressure. The mechanism clicked wrong like a sharp rejection.
She cursed under her breath, sweat beading at her temple. The second attempt faltered as well, her nerves betraying her precision. Panic flickered in her eyes.
Marcel, standing guard by the door, caught the tremor in her movements. He crouched beside her, his voice low and steady. "Take your time. Don't overthink it, okay?"
Rhea swallowed hard, nodded, and exhaled slowly. She reset her tools, forcing her mind to quiet.
Marcel got up again, positioning himself facing the elevator at the end of the passageway. His gun was steady in his hand. If anyone came, he would be ready.
Behind him, Rhea's hands steadied as she started all over again.
***
Five black SUVs, two of them armored, rolled into the property with a low growl of engines. Their headlights sliced through the night, scattering shadows across the manicured drive. Most of the guests were inside, oblivious to the commotion unfolding beyond the ballroom's gilded doors.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward, opening the car door with crisp precision. Dagur emerged, his aura oppressive and overbearing, a force that seemed to bend the air around him. He adjusted his cufflinks with deliberate calm, every movement radiating authority.
Samphire approached, her heels clicking against the stone. "They invited everybody apart from you, how sad" she said softly, her tone edged with disdain.
Dagur didn't reply. He simply walked into the ballroom, his presence commanding silence as he entered.
At the front, the old lady and her son were putting on a performance for the crowd. Cynane's voice rang out, smooth and calculated. "So, while Dagur is away, my son Preston will take his place."
The guests clapped politely, but the sound was interrupted by one pair of hands clapping even louder and sharper. Heads turned, and when they saw Dagur, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path between him and Cynane.
Cynane stiffened, though she forced her composure. How could this bastard be here? He was supposed to be locked up, fighting for his life in prison. Yet here he was, perfectly healthy, standing before her.
"Dagur," she said, her voice tight. "Why didn't you tell me you got bail? I would have come to pick you up personally."
Dagur's aura was like the devil reincarnate as he strode forward. "I didn't want to bother grandmother. At your age, you should be focused on your health."
Samphire sucked in a cold breath. Cynane's anger rose like fire. Why couldn't this evil thing just die?