Chapter 3 - The Shadow at the Exit
The fluorescent lights of the bank basement seemed to hum louder, vibrating inside my skull as the terrifying reality of the text message sank in.
They were here.
In the building.
Watching me through the lens of a security camera or a hidden device planted somewhere in the cold, cavernous vault.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, each beat sending a hot surge of adrenaline through my veins.
"Is everything alright, Miss Morgan?" Arthur, the elderly vault attendant, asked from across the room, noticing my sudden stiffness and pale complexion.
He started walking toward my table, his keys jangling softly on his belt loop.
"Don't come near me!" I blurted out, my voice cracking with panic.
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion and concern.
"Miss, are you feeling unwell? Do you need me to call someone—"
"I need you to stay right where you are," I interrupted, scrambling to gather the documents, the leather journal, and the titanium flash drive, stuffing them haphazardly back into the manila envelope and shoving it deep inside my structured leather tote bag.
I didn't wait for Arthur to respond.
I slammed the metal safety-deposit box shut, shoved it back into its slot with a loud metallic clang, and spun around toward the heavy steel vault door that led back up to the main lobby.
As I rushed out of the private viewing alcove, the heavy security doors hissed open automatically.
The main bank lobby, which had been bustling with midday customers and tellers just twenty minutes ago, was now eerily quiet.
Too quiet.
The security guards stationed near the revolving glass doors were gone.
In their place stood two tall, broad-shouldered men dressed in identical charcoal-grey tailored suits, their expressions as cold and impassive as marble statues.
They didn't look like ordinary bank security.
They looked like corporate executioners.
My footsteps slowed to a sudden halt on the polished marble floor.
I gripped the strap of my tote bag so tightly my knuckles turned white, my eyes darting desperately around the grand lobby for an alternative exit.
There was a side door marked Employee Only located down a narrow hallway near the manager's office.
If I could reach that door before the two suit-clad men closed the distance between us, I might have a chance to slip into the alleyway behind the bank.
I didn't think twice.
I pivoted sharply to the left and bolted down the narrow hallway, my heels clicking frantically against the linoleum floor.
"Hey! Stop right there!" a deep, authoritative voice boomed behind me.
Footsteps pounded heavily on the marble floor—fast, coordinated, and relentless.
I pushed open the heavy wooden employee door, stumbling through into a maze of administrative cubicles and break rooms.
Paperwork fluttered off desks as I brushed past them, knocking over a rolling chair that crashed loudly into a water cooler, spilling gallons of water across the floor.
The distraction bought me precious seconds.
I reached the back exit door, grabbed the steel panic bar, and threw my entire body weight against it.
The door gave way with a loud metallic click, swinging outward into the chilly autumn air of the alleyway.
I burst outside, the crisp wind stinging my face as I began running blindly toward the crowded main street a block away.
The city of Chicago rushed past me in a dizzying blur of yellow cabs, honking horns, and hurried pedestrians.
I didn't dare look back, convinced that the men in charcoal suits were right behind me, matching my stride, waiting to snatch me off the pavement and drag me into the back of a black SUV.
When I finally reached a crowded subway station entrance near Michigan Avenue, I dove down the concrete stairs, blending into the thick mass of commuters swiping their transit cards at the turnstiles.
I pushed my way onto a crowded southbound train just as the pneumatic doors began to close, pressing my back against the graffiti-covered metal wall as the train lurched forward into the dark underground tunnel.
As the carriage rattled along the tracks, I pulled out my phone, my hands still shaking uncontrollably.
I needed a safe place to hide.
Not my apartment—if Richard Vance’s men knew my name and my banking habits, they undoubtedly knew where I lived.
Not a hotel, where I would have to present a valid photo ID that could be digitally tracked within seconds.
I needed someone outside of my normal life.
Someone I hadn't spoken to in over two years.
Marcus Thorne.
My ex-fiancé, and currently a senior investigative journalist for the Chicago Chronicle.
We had broken up because my quiet, cautious nature couldn't handle his relentless obsession with digging into corporate corruption and underground scandals.
Ironically, the very trait that drove us apart was now the only thing that could keep me alive.
I dialed his direct extension, listening to the phone ring through the static-filled line.
After three agonizing rings, a familiar, deep, gravelly voice answered.
May you like
"Thorne here. Make it quick, I'm on deadline."
"Marcus," I whispered into the receiver, my voice trembling so hard I could barely form the syllables. "It's Claire. I need your help. Someone is trying to kill me, and it involves your worst nightmare—the Vance family."
