Chapter 944
“Keep moving,” Skye said, nudging him forward. “You’re Maximillian Sterling. You’re looking for your inheritance. Act entitled.”
“I am entitled,” Parker muttered. “Entitled to not die in a basement.”
Alistair led the way, his good hand gripping a heavy iron key. “This is the sector my father used as his private office before the raid. The Feds cleared the upper floors, but they never found the sub-level.” He stopped in front of a massive steel door embedded in the brick wall. It had no digital keypad — only a complex mechanical dial. “I don’t have the combination,” Alistair said. “But Parker does.”
Parker blinked. “I do?”
“You’re the hacker,” Skye said. “Crack it. Manual override. Use the stethoscope.”
Parker sighed, pulling a stethoscope and a small motorized drill from his bag. “This is so 1990s.”
He pressed the stethoscope against the steel door and closed his eyes. For a moment, the terrified kid vanished, replaced by the savant. His fingers moved the dial with microscopic precision. Click. Whir. Click.
“Gotcha,” Parker whispered.
He spun the wheel. The heavy bolts retracted with a groan of protesting metal, and the door swung open.
𝖳h𝘰𝗎ѕ𝘢ո𝘥𝘀 о𝖿 r𝖾𝘢𝗱𝖾𝘳𝘀 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝘭nоv𝖾𝘭ѕ.с𝗼𝗆
The room inside was small, lined with metal shelves.
Empty shelves. Completely bare.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the flashlight beams.
“It’s gone,” Alistair said, his voice hollow. “Everything. The backup drives, the contingency plans — all of it.”
Skye stepped into the vault. In the center of the room, on a small metal pedestal, sat a single object.
A bullet. Standing upright, balanced perfectly.
She reached for it, but Alistair caught her wrist. “Don’t touch it. Fingerprints.”
He drew out a handkerchief, picked up the bullet, and held it to the light. Etched into the brass casing was a symbol — not the Thorne wolf, not the Sterling lion, but a serpent entwined around a dagger.
“The Vance crest,” Skye breathed. “The old one. From before Julian’s time.”
“Why would a Vance bullet be in my father’s secret vault?” Alistair asked, his face darkening.
Parker’s phone rang.
Not the burner. Not the encrypted line. It was the public smartphone issued for his Maximillian persona — the number printed on business cards at the press conference.
Parker flinched, nearly dropping his flashlight. He looked at Skye. She nodded.
He answered and put it on speaker. “This is Maximillian Sterling.”
“Drop the act, boy.” The voice was distorted and metallic, but its cadence was unmistakable — the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders that resulted in death.
Parker went still. “Who is this?”
“Someone who is disappointed,” the voice said. “I left that vault full before the Feds dragged me away. I expected a better welcome party than a fake heir and a cripple.”
Alistair stiffened. He knew that voice. Even through the distortion.
“Father?” The word came out shaking, caught between rage and disbelief. “You’re in solitary confinement.”
.