Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Paul: The Vault
The monitor fills with white silk and imprisoned beauty.
Vivianne descends the grand staircase, and even through Jenny's button camera feed, she takes my breath away. The wedding dress is a masterpiece of perfection—countless pearls, French lace, a train that trails behind her like chains made of cloud. But it's her face that stops me cold.
Blank. Empty.
Like she's already gone somewhere deep inside where they can't reach her.
"Target is mobile." Jenny's voice crackles through comms, professional and detached. "Moving toward the garden ceremony site."
Target. Not Vivianne. Not the woman I love. Target.
"That's our cue." Merlin is already moving toward the van's rear doors.
On the monitor, Vivianne's father takes her arm. His grip is possessive, fingers digging into the silk at her elbow hard enough that she winces.
"Paul." CJ doesn't look away from his screens. "Remember the plan."
The plan. Right. The plan where I crawl through dirt and wine cellars while the woman I love is being sold off fifty meters away.
"Security is shifting to ceremony positions." Sam's voice cuts through. "Donovan's moving his primary team to the garden perimeter. You've got your window."
Merlin cracks the van doors and peers out. We're parked behind a maintenance shed, technically on the neighboring property but with a clear line of sight to the estate's service areas. The morning sun casts long shadows that we'll use for cover.
"Mitzy, we need those blind spots."
"Already on it." Her voice is calm, focused. "Bumbles deploying to cameras three, seven, and twelve. You'll have a rolling blackout—ninety seconds per camera, sequenced to give you continuous coverage."
On another monitor, the garden fills with guests. Five hundred of the elite, here to witness what they think is a fairy tale but is actually a public execution. Prescott stands at the altar, adjusting his cufflinks with the satisfied air of a man about to receive a long-awaited package.
I'm going to kill him. Not today, not during the mission, but someday when he least expects it, I'm going to—
"Move." Merlin's command cuts through my dark thoughts, and we're out of the van, running low across the manicured lawn.
The grass is still wet with dew, soaking through my shoes, making each step treacherous. We reach the first checkpoint—a decorative wall that separates the service area from the main grounds. I boost Merlin up and over, then follow, landing silently on the other side.
"Camera twelve going dark in three... two... one..." Mitzy counts down.
We sprint across the exposed ground, reaching the shelter of a delivery truck just as she announces, "Camera twelve back online. Camera seven going dark now."
It's like playing the world's most dangerous game of red light, green light. Move, freeze, move again. My pulse pounds so loud I'm sure the guards will hear it.
Through my earpiece, the wedding march begins. Strings and organ, traditional and suffocating.
"Bride entering garden area." Charlie's voice. "She looks... fuck, she looks like she's walking to her execution."
I force myself not to think about it. Can't think about it. One mission at a time.
We reach the wine cellar's service entrance—a simple wooden door that looks like it hasn't been updated since the house was built. But I know better. The wood is just a facade. Underneath is reinforced steel, and the lock...
I kneel, pulling out my picks. It's a Fichet Primlock, French-made, seven pins, false gates on three of them. Not impossible, but not simple either.
"You've got ninety seconds before the patrol comes around." Merlin keeps watch, voice low.
My hands steady as I work. This is what I know, what I'm good at. The picks slide in, feeling for each pin's position. First one sets. Second. The third is sticky—false gate trying to catch my pick.
"Sixty seconds."
Third pin sets. Fourth. Fifth is another false gate.
"Processional beginning." Jenny's report. "All eyes on the bride."
Vivianne walking down that aisle, every step taking her further from freedom. My hand trembles, nearly dropping the tension wrench.
Sixth pin. Seventh. The lock turns with a satisfying click.
We slip inside, closing the door just as footsteps round the corner outside. The wine cellar is exactly what you'd expect from old money—stone walls that breathe history, perfect temperature control, thousands upon thousands of bottles that represent more wealth than most people see in a lifetime.
But we're not here for the wine.
"1947 Chateau d'Yquem." I orient myself, voice barely a whisper. According to Vivianne, it's in the third row, halfway down.
We move through the cellar like ghosts, our footsteps silent on the ancient stones. The bottles seem to watch us pass—silent witnesses to another crime in a house built on them. First row: Burgundies. Second row: Bordeaux. Third row...
There. A section dedicated to dessert wines, and among them, the distinctive gold labels of Chateau d'Yquem. The 1947 vintage sits in its own subsection, twelve bottles that would sell for more than a small fortune if they ever reached auction.
"Which one?" Merlin asks.
I close my eyes, replaying Vivianne's whispered instructions. "Third from the left, second shelf from the bottom."
But as I reach for it, the bottle isn't quite aligned with the others. It's tilted, just slightly, like someone has been here recently.
"Groom saying his vows." The report crackles through comms. The ceremony is moving fast. Too fast.
I grasp the bottle and pull. Nothing happens.
"Turn it." Merlin suggests.
I rotate the bottle clockwise. A soft click, then grinding as mechanisms struggle to engage. The entire wine rack shudders, then swings inward on hidden hinges, revealing darkness beyond.
The smell hits immediately—stale air, dust, and something else. Secrets left too long in the dark.
Merlin produces a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom to reveal a wooden door, exactly as Vivianne described. But she was wrong about one thing—it's not just old, it's ancient.
"Bride's turn for vows coming up." Jenny again. "Security is completely focused on the ceremony."
Merlin kneels at the lock—a masterpiece of 19th-century craftsmanship that would be in a museum if anyone knew it existed. Seven levers, each one requiring precise pressure and timing.
"This is going to take time." He mutters, pulling out a set of picks that look as old as the lock itself.
"We don't have time." Through the comm, the priest's voice comes through, faint but clear: "Do you, Vivianne Amelie Faulks..."
"Then stop talking and let me work."
I pace the small space, three steps one way, three steps back. Every second that passes is another second closer to Vivianne being legally bound to that monster. My hands clench and unclench. I should be up there. Should be stopping this.
"First lever." Merlin announces quietly. Then, "Second."
"...take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband..."
"Third lever. Fourth."
"...to have and to hold from this day forward..."
"Fifth. Sixth is being stubborn."
My fist connects with the stone wall, pain shooting up my arm. "Hurry."
"Violence won't make this go faster." But his hands move more quickly now. "Sixth. And... seventh."
The lock disengages with a sound like a sigh, and the door swings open.
The corridor beyond is exactly as Vivianne described—narrow, maybe three feet wide, with modern additions that look obscene against the ancient stone. Motion sensors line the walls at regular intervals, their red lights blinking like eyes in the darkness.
"Mitzy." I speak into the comm. "We need those bees now."
"Already ahead of you. First wave incoming."
Through the doorway comes a sound like summer—dozens of mechanical bees, each no bigger than my thumbnail, their tiny rotors humming. They swarm past us and take positions directly in front of each sensor, their bodies blocking the infrared beams.
"You've got approximately three minutes." Mitzy warns. "Move fast."
We don't need to be told twice. Merlin and I rush through the corridor, our shoulders brushing the walls. The stone is cold, damp in places where groundwater has seeped through. Our footsteps echo despite our attempts at silence.
Halfway through, Charlie's voice crackles through my earpiece: "Something's wrong. The bride hasn't answered."
I stumble, catch myself against the wall.
"She's just standing there." Jenny reports. "Not speaking."
Good girl. Fight them, Vivianne. Give us time.
"The groom looks angry." Sam adds. "Father's moving toward her."
We reach the end of the corridor—the biometric door. State of the art, installed maybe five years ago. Fingerprint scanner, retinal scan, and a keypad for a twelve-digit code. Unbeatable under normal circumstances.
But we have Mitzy's special gift.
Merlin raises his wrist, where the EMP watch sits innocuously. "Once I trigger this, we have thirty seconds before the systems reboot. The door will be on manual locks only—we'll have to force it."
"Do it."
"Wait." He grabs my arm. "Listen."
Through the comms, chaos. Shouting. A crash.
"Flowers everywhere." Brett reports. "Someone knocked over the entire altar arrangement."
"Was it Charlie?"
"Negative, he's by the gift table. It just... fell."
A distraction. Someone's buying us time.
"Now." I tell Merlin.
He presses the watch face three times in sequence. No dramatic flash, no sound effect like in films. Just a subtle vibration, and every LED on the door goes dark.
Together, we grab the emergency manual handle—required by fire codes even in secret vaults—and pull. The door weighs at least 300 pounds and is designed to be opened by hydraulics, not human muscle. It fights us every inch.
"Ten seconds." Merlin gasps.
We pull harder. My shoulders scream. My hands slip on the metal.
"Five seconds."
With a grinding protest, the door swings open just as the lights flicker back on, systems rebooting. An alarm begins to shriek—piercing, overwhelming, designed to disorient as much as alert.
But we're in.
The vault spreads before us like a dragon's hoard. Paintings stack against the walls—a Monet, a Picasso, what might be a real Vermeer. Display cases hold jewelry that hasn't seen the light in decades. Ancient artifacts that belong in museums sit carelessly on shelves.
All stolen. All hidden. The Faulks family's real wealth, built on the bones of war and theft.
But we're here for only one thing.
"There." Merlin points.
A glass case, and within it, lying on black velvet like a drop of blood...
The Swan.
"Alarms are going off everywhere." CJ reports. "Security is scrambling. You need to move NOW."
I run to the pedestal. The glass case has its own lock—another antique, probably installed when the pendant was first hidden here. No time for picks. No time for finesse.
I wrap my jacket around my elbow and smash the glass.
The Swan is heavier than I expected, the ruby catching the emergency lights, seeming to pulse like something alive. Inside the stone, that impossible swan frozen in flight. Even in this moment of chaos, its beauty stops me cold.
"PAUL!" Merlin shouts.
I pocket the pendant, and we run. Back through the corridor where the bumblebees are already falling, their power exhausted. Back past the ancient door that we don't bother to close. Through the wine cellar where bottles rattle from our passing.
"Security converging on the house." Sam reports. "They know about the vault breach."
"Ceremony is in chaos." Jenny adds. "Complete pandemonium."
We burst from the wine cellar into blinding sunlight. The estate is in uproar—guards running toward the house, guests scattering, and somewhere in that chaos, Vivianne is either free or more trapped than ever.
"Van!" Merlin shouts, pointing.
CJ has brought it around, tires screeching as he slides to a stop beside us. We dive into the back, and he's moving before the doors close.
"Did you get it?"
"Yeah." I'm still gasping. "We got it."
"Our team is extracting the bride." CJ takes a hard turn that sends us sliding. "Complete chaos at the ceremony site."
On the monitors, fragments—white dress disappearing into smoke, guards with guns drawn, an elderly woman fainting into her chair. But no Vivianne. Can't tell if she's safe.
"Where is she?" The demand comes out raw.
"Charlie has her." Jenny's voice, steady despite the chaos. "Moving to extraction point two."
"Negative." Sam cuts in. "Father's blocking the route with security."
My hand goes to my gun. "Turn around."
"No." CJ's voice is firm. "This was the plan. You get the Swan, they get Vivianne."
"Turn the fucking van around!"
"Paul." Merlin's hand on my shoulder. "Trust them."
Trust. The hardest thing in the world when everything you love is on the line.
On the monitors, smoke grenades bloom like flowers. White dress flashing through the chaos. Guards converging. And somewhere in that beautiful catastrophe, Vivianne is fighting for her freedom while I sit here with a stolen ruby and a breaking pulse.
"Charlie's clear!" Brett shouts through comms. "They're at the van!"
"Moving to rendezvous." Another voice confirms.
I close my eyes, the Swan warm in my palm, and pray to every god I don't believe in that we haven't just traded one treasure for another.
That we've saved them both.