The key to the drying room felt heavy in my palm. Julian’s furious grunts and the metal-on-metal screeching from outside the vault had reached a frantic pitch. He was close to breaking in.
I walked to the heavy main door of Vault B, the one he was still assaulting. My hand went to the massive wheel. With a deep, steadying breath, I rotated it. The heavy pins retracted.
The door swung inward with a low groan, revealing Julian framed in the dim corridor light. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his suit jacket soaked and torn, a heavy iron pry bar clutched in his hand.
His eyes, wide with a triumphant madness, locked onto mine. “Finally,” he sneered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Thought you could hide forever?”
He took a step forward, ready to rush me.
I pointed past him, towards the smaller, unmarked door to the drying room Clara had indicated. The new key was still in my hand.
He followed my gaze. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but his grin returned. “Oh, a private audience? How appropriate.”
He lowered the pry bar, dropping it with a clang to the concrete floor. He thought he had me cornered.
He stepped past me, into the soundproofed drying room. It was narrow, lined with metal racks for hanging film, and a single, low-powered projector casting a square of light on the back wall.
I slipped in behind him, closing the heavy door. The silence was absolute.
I flicked on the projector. The grainy, black-and-white image from the micro-reel instantly filled the wall: Julian’s prominent politician father, pen in hand, signing the illicit supply transfers in 1944. His signature, magnified, was unmistakable.
Julian’s triumphant grin faltered, then vanished. His eyes, fixed on the projected image, widened in horrified recognition. His breath hitched. The blood drained from his face, leaving it ashen and slack.
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