Chapter 45 - The Descent into Vault 09
"Let her go, Bale!" Ivy shouted, stepping from behind the massive oak, ignoring Marcus’s desperate warning shout. Her voice was amplified by the natural amphitheater of the quarry, clear and lethal.
Bale spun, his weapon trained instantly on her chest. But the moment his halogen lanterns illuminated Ivy's face—and the antique silver pocket watch hanging openly from her tactical vest—he paused. A slow, poisonous smile crossed his face.
"The real accountant," Bale shouted through the wind. "Arthur said you were just an awkward little clerk with a calculator. He didn't tell me you had Julian’s master chronometer."
"Ivy! Help me!" Victoria wailed, sobbing hysterically in the mud. "They took everything! They came to my apartment, they seized my accounts—they said Arthur owed them seven million dollars! They said if I didn't show them the entrance, they’d kill me!"
"You led them to Meadowgate, Victoria," Ivy said, her tone devoid of pity, colder than the October rain. "Just like you led the creditors to Grandmother’s doorstep. You trade what isn't yours because you have never built a single thing in your miserable life."
"Enough family therapy," Bale snarled, cocking his pistol. "The watch, Miss Vance. And step onto the scanner pad, or I put a hollow-point through your sister’s knee. Then your lawyer’s. Then I take the property by eminent default."
"You can't default on what has already been extinguished," Ivy replied, stepping forward with unhurried authority. "The foreclosure you filed in Chicago was flagged this morning by the Federal Reserve's special assets division. You aren't executing a lien, Bale. You're committing high treason."
At that precise moment, a low mechanical groan echoed from the base of the kiln. The hydraulic cutters Bale's men were using suddenly hissed and failed as the heavy blast door began to move on its own accord.
The perimeter sensors hadn't been destroyed; they had been rerouted. From the dark treeline behind Bale’s operators, Dr. Thorne’s federal strike team emerged, black weapons raised, laser sights painting Bale’s men in an inescapable matrix of red dots.
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"Appalachian Security Task Force," Dr. Thorne's voice boomed through an acoustic hail system. "Drop your weapons and step away from the hatchway! You are in violation of Title 50, National Defense Authorization!"
Panic shattered Bale’s ranks. Gunfire erupted in short, panicked bursts. Bale lunged for Ivy, attempting to drag her down into the opening subterranean maw, but Ivy pivoted, driving the solid steel casing of the silver watch directly into the bridge of his nose with all the force of three years of repressed rage. Bale stumbled backward with a bloody scream, losing his footing on the slick moss, and tumbled down the concrete stairwell into the yawning blackness of Vault 09.
