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At that moment, someone barks, “DON’T MOVE!”
Slowly, I turn and look over my shoulder.
A security guard is standing behind us, his gun pointed at Seb and me.
Not just any security guard—my good buddy Michael, who let us down into the vault a couple weeks back.
Michael is not supposed to be working tonight. No security guards are supposed to be working tonight.
The question of why Michael is here at 11:00 pm is a mystery. If I had to guess, I assume he was doing something less-than-legal for Raymond on one of the upper floors. That’s not what I care about, however. I’m concerned solely with the gun pointed at my face.
Seb and I are wearing Kevlar vests. I really don’t want to test their functionality, or Michael’s aim.
“Take it easy,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm.
“Don’t fucking talk, and don’t fucking move, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes,” Michael barks.
“What do you want to do?” Seb murmurs to me, so quietly that even I can barely hear it.
I can see his body coiled like a spring. He wants to try to get the jump on Michael, thinking he’s just some rent-a-cop. That’s a bad idea—I doubt Raymond Page picked a schmuck as the head of his security team. This guy is probably some ex-navy SEAL or worse.
Carefully, keeping my body turned to hide what I’m doing, I slip my hand in my pocket. I intend to close my fingers around the handle of my switchblade. If Seb can distract this dude, I might have a chance . . .
My hand grasps at nothing. I don’t have my knife anymore—I gave it to Camille.
Well, shit.
At that moment, I hear sirens—distant, but getting closer by the second.
Michael chuckles.
“You’re fucked now,” he says.
Then I see something so odd that it looks like an optical illusion. The shadow behind one of the bank’s marble pillars peels away from the wall, looming up behind Michael. In one swift motion, it grabs the guard’s wrist, wrenching his gun upward, and wraps one massive forearm around Michael’s throat.
The security guard squeezes his trigger three times in a row, but the bullets shoot harmlessly up into the air. Meanwhile, my big brother Dante puts Michael in the most painful-looking headlock I’ve ever witnessed. Dante chokes him out in about eight seconds, until Michael slumps over unconscious.
Dante drops him on the top of the steps.
“Hey!” Sebastian greets him, cheerfully.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
Dante shrugs his heavy shoulders.
“I thought you might need help.”
“We had it covered,” I tell him.
“Clearly,” he snorts, stepping over the security guard’s slumbering frame.
The sirens are getting closer. Now’s the time to leave.
Dante must have a car somewhere around.
But I don’t want to leave without Camille . . .
“Let’s go,” Dante grunts.
