Chapter 8 - The Eight-Minute Heist
At two o’clock sharp, a sleek black town car rolled through the heavy wrought-iron front gates of Kane Manor.
Rose stood behind the sheer curtains of the second-floor service corridor, watching Richard Kane’s vehicle disappear down the winding driveway.
Her heart felt like a trapped bird inside her ribcage, fluttering at an agonizing tempo.
She looked down at the small digital timer Alexander had slipped into her apron pocket.
At two-fourteen, the screen blinked from red to green.
Window active: 07:59... 07:58...
Rose stepped out of the linen closet, pushing her heavy wheeled utility cart before her.
She wore rubber-soled cleaning shoes that made no sound against the polished parquet floor.
The west wing corridor was utterly deserted.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint ticking of an antique grandfather clock near the stairwell.
She reached the massive double mahogany doors of Richard’s private study.
She pulled the silver master skeleton key from her apron and inserted it into the lock.
It turned with a smooth, oiled click.
Rose slipped inside, pulling the heavy door almost shut behind her, leaving a hairline crack to listen for approaching footsteps.
The study smelled strongly of sandalwood, pipe tobacco, and stale Scotch.
Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the afternoon sun, casting the room in deep, shadowy twilight.
Rose pulled a small penlight from her pocket, clicking the beam onto the far wall.
Behind the massive mahogany desk hung a massive oil painting depicting a fox hunt in full pursuit.
Rose climbed onto the leather executive chair, her knees trembling slightly.
She reached behind the gilded frame, her fingers finding the small brass release lever Alexander had described.
A soft click echoed through the room.
The heavy painting swung outward on hidden hinges, revealing a brushed-steel digital safe embedded flush into the stone masonry.
The timer in her pocket vibrated against her hip.
05:22... 05:21...
Rose pulled out the slip of paper Alexander had given her.
Her bandaged fingers felt clumsy as she entered the eight-digit bypass code on the electronic keypad: 8-4-0-9-1-1-6-2.
A tiny green LED flickered on.
Now came the mechanical dial.
Alexander had spent an hour teaching her how to feel for the gate drop on an antique Sargent & Greenleaf lock.
She pressed her ear against the cold brushed steel.
She turned the heavy brass dial clockwise.
Click.
She reversed counter-clockwise, holding her breath, feeling the delicate tumblers shift against each other.
Click.
On the third rotation, the heavy locking bolts retracted with a solid, echoing thud.
Rose pulled the safe door open.
Inside lay stacks of bundled hundred-dollar bills, Swiss bearer bonds, and several black passports with diplomatic stamps.
Sitting in the back corner, coated in a fine layer of aged dust, was a small leather-bound book.
It was bound in dark navy blue morocco leather, its corners protected by tarnished brass brackets.
Rose gasped softly, pulling it into the beam of her penlight.
Embossed on the lower right corner were three faded gold initials: T. B.
Thomas Bennett.
Her father’s notebook.
Hot tears stung Rose’s eyes as she ran her thumb over the worn leather.
Her father had held this very book twelve years ago before his life was stolen away.
The timer buzzed again.
02:15... 02:14...
She had barely two minutes before the corridor cameras re-initialized.
Rose tucked the blue notebook securely into the deep inside pocket of her apron.
She pushed the heavy safe door shut and spun the dial, scrambling the combination.
She pushed the fox hunt painting back into place until the hidden latch clicked firmly.
She stepped down from the leather chair, smoothing the cushions to erase any impression of her feet.
She crossed the room to the heavy door, extinguished her penlight, and pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
She pulled the door open an inch and peered out.
The corridor was clear.
Rose stepped backward out into the hallway, pulling her cleaning cart forward to maintain her cover.
She had just turned the cart toward the service elevator when a cold voice echoed from the top of the stairwell.
“You’re far outside your assigned sector, Bennett.”
May you like
Rose froze, her blood turning to ice water.
Mrs. Gable stood at the landing, her arms folded across her chest, her hawkish eyes boring into Rose’s face with merciless suspicion.
