Sixteen-year-old Toby Gentry races to uncover $4.2 million in stolen underworld assets after his pregnant sister-in-law disappears from a locked Charleston cellar, exposing a deadly family conspira...
I took the ancient parchment from Garrity’s trembling hand. The wax seal, bearing the Gentry family crest, felt cool and smooth under my thumb. This wasn’t just a piece of paper; it was leverage.
Maeve gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Now, Julian, you disappear. And don’t come back. Ever.”
Garrity didn’t argue. He scrambled out of the library, a whimpering mess, probably convinced that Silas would be hunting him next.
Bram met us back at the van. He took one look at the scroll in my hand. “That’ll get Silas’s attention.”
“He’s down in the storm surge vault beneath the Battery,” Bram added, starting the engine. “He likes to conduct his… sensitive meetings down there. Believes no one can eavesdrop.”
The ride was tense. The city lights blurred as we sped through the empty streets of Charleston, heading towards the historic waterfront. The Battery, with its majestic homes and seawall, seemed eerily quiet.
Bram pulled into a hidden alcove near a crumbling historical marker. “The entrance is a maintenance hatch, disguised as part of the old seawall. It’ll be locked, but I have a key.”
He led us to a rusty metal door set into the base of the seawall, almost invisible to the casual eye. He fumbled with a heavy brass key, and with a groan of old metal, the hatch swung open into darkness.
“Maeve, you wait here,” I said, a sudden decision solidifying in my mind. “This is my play. One-on-one. Just me and Silas.”
Maeve raised an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in her gaze. “Brave, or foolish, Toby? He plays for keeps.”
“So do I,” I replied, gripping the scroll tighter.
Bram gave me a firm look. “Be careful, kid. Silas isn’t like Julian or Evelyn. He’s lethal.”
I nodded. I descended into the darkness, the cold, damp air immediately engulfing me. The sound of dripping water echoed, growing louder with each step. The air was thick with the smell of brine and old concrete.
The passage opened into a vast, cavernous chamber. Water, cold and murky, stood several feet deep, reflecting the dim light from a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A faint current rippled the surface. This was the storm surge vault, a relic designed to protect the city from high tides.
Silas Pinckney stood in the center of the chamber, his back to me. He was taller than I expected, lean and powerful, even in repose. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed out of place in the flooded, dripping vault.
He turned slowly. His face was sharp, etched with decades of ruthlessness. His eyes, the color of gunmetal, regarded me without emotion.
“Toby Gentry,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft but filled with a chilling authority. “You’ve been a busy boy.”
“I have the original Gentry deed, Silas,” I stated, holding up the scroll. “The one that proves Julian Garrity falsified everything. The one that proves your entire land grab is illegitimate.”
Silas’s eyes flickered to the scroll, then back to my face. A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it held no warmth.
“So you do,” he said, his voice flat. “And what do you propose, Toby? You think this piece of paper can stop me?”
The water around my ankles felt colder. This was the moment.
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