CHAPTER 4

  The northside road of Colonial Bank was jammed with black Mercedes G?Wagons, all tinted, all silent. People expected them at the front entrance, but the convoy slipped into the VIP parking—territory only Thomas ever used.

  They moved in a tight formation. One G?Wagon in the center stood out, the way a general stands out in a sea of uniforms.

  Inside the central car:

  “Hey. Sebastian. Wake up. We’re here.”

  “Matthew… five minutes. I was finally comfortable.”

  Matthew frowned. Does he even understand how important tonight is? The only reason the meeting is this late is because his boss overslept.

  “No. We’re already late. And why the hell aren’t you in a suit? I told them you’d be coming informal—we can’t have these low?level bankers looking down on you. Act your rank.”

  Sebastian opened his eyes, staring at Matthew with that cold, machine look he was known for. Matthew returned it—second in command doesn’t break.

  “Save the look, Sebastian. Sleep tomorrow. Focus now.”

  Sebastian laughed. “Relax. I know you’re nervous. This is my best outfit, considering.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He tapped his gear—bulletproof vest, cargo pants, army?green gloves, long sleeves, combat boots.

  “I’m not nervous,” Matthew muttered. “I just don’t want you giving the wrong impression.”

  They stepped out. Sixty G?Wagons. Two hundred forty soldiers. Sixty drivers. Everyone stood like they’d trained for this exact moment.

  “Boys, hold position,” Sebastian ordered. “Me, Matthew, and two others are going up. Stand guard and look pretty, boys.”

  Salutes cracked through the underground lot.

  “Matthew,” Sebastian said as they approached the elevator, “press the button to the Hell Above the Sky.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One soldier nearby was sweating through his shirt. Matthew noticed it immediately—weakness. Sebastian caught both looks.

  “First time coming up here, Matthew?” Sebastian asked. “Know why Thomas calls his office the Hell Above the Sky?”

  “No, sir. I don’t care what scum call themselves.”

  Sebastian smirked. “Scum, yeah. Most won’t disagree. But they won’t say it to his face either. Anyway—banks usually have one vault. This place has two. One below us, stuffed with more money than a man can burn in a lifetime… and one above us, holding a devil.”

  The elevator opened.

  The top floor was empty—no desks, no guards, no décor. Just a long hallway leading to a massive vault door big enough to laugh at a nuke.

  Four guards stood there, statues. No salute. No blink.

  “Oh right,” Sebastian said. “Only three can enter. Non?negotiable. Forgot.”

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Matthew shot the sweating soldier twice. Blood sprayed the wall, bone shattered under the bullets. The carpet drank it in, dark and permanent.

  Limbs twitched once, then went still. The man’s eyes stared, empty, while Matthew’s face didn’t move, didn’t care, as if nothing had happened. A life ended over nothing, spilled like water, meaningless. The room smelled of iron and smoke. Silence followed, broken only by Matthew’s calm breathing, as if murder were as small as crushing a bug.

  "Why shoot him?” Sebastian asked.

  "He was the closest.”

  “No, Matthew. Killing a man just because he’s sweating? That’s childish.”

  Matthew shrugged. “Noted.”

  The doormen grabbed the vault handle. Muscles straining, veins bulging, teeth gritted—they pulled with everything they had. The door groaned, inching open.

  Thomas could move it with one hand.