Chapter 12 - The Vault on Fleet Street
The pilot banked the supersonic jet into an evasive dive, plunging through the freezing cloud bank over the Celtic Sea.
Chaff and flare countermeasures exploded behind them like blinding supernovas, illuminating the storm-tossed ocean five thousand feet below.
The missile detonated against the thermal decoy, the shockwave violently rattling the jet’s titanium frame but leaving its twin turbines screaming.
“They know we’re coming!” Maya yelled, strapping Emily into a jump seat as the aircraft leveled out over the southern coast of England.
“That wasn’t a patrol frigate; that was a private mercenary warship owned by the Council,” Reynolds reported from the communications console.
“London airspace is locked down under emergency protocols, but our RAF clearance just barely slipped us through.”
Forty minutes later, the aircraft touched down on a desolate military strip in Northolt under the cover of a thick, sulfurous London fog.
A battered black cab with reinforced ballistic glass was waiting by the tarmac hangar, its headlights slicing through the gray drizzle.
Emily and Maya slipped into the back seat, the driver pulling away into the early morning traffic without uttering a single word.
The iconic landmarks of London blurred past Emily’s window like gray specters trapped in centuries of damp rain.
Big Ben chimed five in the morning, its heavy bronze tolls echoing across the Thames with a sense of impending doom.
“We have less than ninety minutes before the international financial exchange opens at eight,” Maya warned, checking the slide on her sidearm.
The cab pulled into an ancient, cobblestone alleyway nestled behind the towering glass monuments of modern financial titans.
Number 22 Fleet Street was an archaic brick townhouse wedged between two abandoned Victorian printing presses.
Emily pushed through the heavy oak door, the scent of aged leather, ink, and dust instantly filling her senses.
Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the shadows, illuminated only by a handful of flickering gas lamps.
At the far end of the narrow aisle sat an elderly man whose pale, clouded eyes stared toward the ceiling as his fingers danced over an old braille typewriter.
“You walk with Arthur Carter’s rhythm, young lady,” the old man spoke without turning his head.
“Though I hear the sound of cold lead and fresh gun oil following in your footsteps.”
“My father sent me, Mr. Sterling,” Emily said, stepping toward the mahogany counter.
“He wrote that you held the key to the iron chamber before the Council could reach it.”
The old archivist stopped typing, his weathered hands resting on the brass keys of the machine.
“Arthur knew this hour would arrive the moment he refused to hand over the Thames Gateway manifests,” Sterling whispered.
“Victoria and Harold were nothing more than hungry jackals scavenging for table scraps.”
“The real beast sits in Kensington, Emily.”
“Lord Evelyn Vance, Harold’s elder brother and the Chairman of the Sovereign Council.”
Emily felt a chill crawl up her spine at the mention of the name.
“Harold told me his family had died in a fire thirty years ago,” Emily whispered.
“Harold told you what his brother commanded him to say to keep Evelyn’s hands clean in the public eye,” Sterling countered.
The archivist reached beneath the floorboards of the counter and pulled out a heavy, tarnished iron cylinder carved with Latin inscriptions.
“This is the master key to the subterranean vault beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral where your family’s original charter is sealed.”
“If Evelyn gets Victoria to speak the authorization code, the entire Carter lineage will be legally erased from corporate history.”
Suddenly, the stained-glass windows of the townhouse shattered inward with a terrifying crash.
Smoke grenades hissed across the floorboards, spewing blinding white phosphorus throughout the narrow aisles.
May you like
Three figures clad in black tactical armor dropped through the skylight, their suppressed assault rifles snapping into firing position.
“Protect the cylinder!” Maya shouted, pushing Emily behind a massive mahogany desk as automatic fire ripped through thousands of antique pages.
