Chapter 21
TALIN
“Ifucking hate this thing.” He adjusts the collar of his suit and rolls his shoulders. I watch and try very hard not to smile, which only seems to annoy him more.
“Come on, you look so handsome.” I tug at his shoulder seam and try to adjust the shape. “Just like a beautiful used car salesman.”
“You’re not helpful.”
“Who said I was trying to be helpful?”
We stride toward The Bridled Trust, its old copper-and-gold sign hanging out front of what looks like a Roman senatorial building.
Ancient white columns, probably not more than a few decades old at most, flank a massive glass door.
An old, tired-looking security guard lingers out front and shifts to block our way.
“Good morning, sir, ma’am, are you members of the bank?”
Brenden opens his mouth to reply but I squeeze his arm and take over instead.
“Yes, hello, my grandfather recently passed and left us this silly key thing in his will. Do you have it, Reginald? I do hope so seeing as I left my bag with the driver and I’d very much hate to fetch the car again, not in these shoes. ” I beam at the guard.
He squints at us as Brenden fumbles with his pocket and produces the key. “I believe this is what you’re after, darling.”
“That’s the ticket.” I snatch it from his hand and hold it toward the guard. “Yes, I do believe this opens some sort of magical box in your fine establishment? Excuse my ignorance but I haven’t been in a bank in ages.”
“You’ve never been in a bank,” Brenden says with a haughty snort, patting my hand, and I’m impressed at how easily he’s taken to the characters we established. “Banks don’t agree with her constitution.”
“Right this way, please.” The guard opens the door for us and steps aside. “Mr. Wright will be along to help shortly.”
The interior of The Bridled Trust is an obscene monument to old money opulence. Everything shines with precious metals. The walls are wood paneled, the ceilings are absurdly high, and the floor is marble buffed so smooth that my grip on Brenden isn’t only about keeping up appearances.
I angle toward a set of waiting couches and sit down daintily on the edge of one. Brenden lingers at my side, flipping open a lighter—the same stolen lighter we took from the Davises. It looks impossibly average in the wealthy surroundings.
“Good job out there, Reginald,” I mutter to him, keeping an insipid smile on my face.
“You also, darling. It’s like you were born for this.”
“I was.” I sit straight-backed proper, channeling my inner Annie yet again. I’m a pale imitation of my sister, but that’s still good enough to pass in a place like this. “Follow my lead and we might get through.”
An older gentleman in a three-piece suit comes hurrying over about ten minutes later. Brenden stays silent, scowling like the wait was unacceptable, while Mr. Wright introduces himself as the branch manager.
“I’ve been told you have a safe deposit box to inspect? One that was passed down through the family? I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you for the condolences, Mr. Wright.” I offer my hand and Brenden helps me to my feet. “But we are very busy and would appreciate your assistance in expediting this process.”
“Naturally, naturally.” He rubs his hands together. “But you must understand, we don’t often get unrecognized visitors. Have either of you been here before?”
“As we told your man out front, this is not our normal business.”
“Yes, I completely understand, and I do apologize for the wait. The Bridled Trust is a very old institution and we take our security and our privacy very seriously.”
“Security?” Brenden says it with a beautiful scoff. “Are you making insinuations, sir?”
“Of course not, I never would, but even still.” He smiles, perfectly obsequious, but it’s about as real as his floppy hair. This man’s a snake under his polite exterior. “We cannot be too careful.”
“What can we do to move the process along then?” I yawn, covering my mouth.
“Documentation, for starters. Identification. And I’d like to inspect the key, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Go on, dear, give him the key.” I wave my hand at Brenden. “And can you please produce your cards? You do have your wallet?”
“Always.” Brenden hands over the key and shows his fake ID. “Although I didn’t know we were in communist Russia showing our papers!”
Mr. Wright chuckles like that’s not the first time he’s heard that comment before briskly walking off. I lean on Brenden’s arm, playing the bored and tired rich lady role to the best of my ability while suppressing the urge to panic.
“Is that fake going to pass?” I ask casually, glancing around the vaulted ceiling for cameras. I force myself to stop since that’s even more suspicious.
“It’ll pass, darling, don’t you worry.” He leans in closer. “But I have no clue who registered that box and what our friend is going to think when he looks into it.”
I’m on edge but do my best to show only mild irritation and boredom.
Brenden pretends like he’s soothing me and we fake a conversation about antiques.
Mr. Wright is gone another agonizing ten minutes before he steps out of a nearby office with a young woman at his beck, her blond hair perfectly blown out.
“Here you are, I apologize to keep you waiting.” Mr. Wright hands back the ID card and the key.
Brenden passes the key to me. “Ms. Shippens will show you to the boxes. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.
” I can’t tell what’s going on in Mr. Wright’s head, but he only stands and watches as the young woman leads us down a hall.
She talks amiably about the bank and its history.
I’m barely paying attention. My heart’s racing as we’re taken deeper and I can’t believe this is actually working.
When we arrive in the secure room which contains the boxes, I feel like I might be sick.
Ms. Shippens barely notices though as she quickly and professionally unlocks and removes a long metallic container, sliding it straight from the wall.
She places it down on a table at the center of the room.
“If you need anything else, I’ll be in the hall, and thank you for your trust.” She shows her teeth in a wide, fake smile, and disappears.
I go to rip open the lid but Brenden stops me. He waits, watching the door with a calculating frown.
“That was too easy,” he says quietly.
“We’re here. What else do you want?”
“I don’t know.” Another few seconds before he pulls back. “Alright, open it.”
I pull the lid, my heart hammering, hands clammy and sticky. I keep waiting for something to jump out and attack us.
Instead, there’s only a single book. It’s a ledger and not an expensive one: black paper cover, metal rings, thin paper on the inside. The sort of thing you could get at a business supply store for less than a dollar.
But it’s filled with writing. Cramped, tight, neat penmanship. I note times, descriptions, places I recognize, and dozens of names. I’m tempted to sit down and start parsing through it, but Brenden’s already shoving the box back into its place in the wall and locking it tight.
“Hold on to that,” he says, tucking the key into his pocket. “And stay close.”
“Brenden, I think this is it.” I force myself to close the cover and hold it toward him. “Seriously, I think we found it.”
“We’ll see.” He steps into the hall. Ms. Shippens is waiting nearby. She seems surprised we appeared.
“Done already?” she asks quickly. “Are you sure there isn’t more business inside? Did you close the box and lock it already? Perhaps you should wait here—“
“No, we’re done.” Brenden strides past her, not pausing and not bothering to use his fake upper-crust accent. I have to hurry to keep up.
“Wait a moment. Can’t we get you tea? Would you like an office to use? We have accommodations—“
“No, thank you.” Brenden reaches the end of the hall that leads to the main atrium but stops dead in his tracks. I bump into him and Ms. Shippens lets out a light yelp.
Several men are near the door. Mr. Wright is talking to them quietly. Each is dressed in dark clothes, dark jeans, dark jackets, and a cold dread flutters down my spine. I’ve seen men like these before, though not many times.
Gor calls them greasers. They’re the lube in the machinery of the family. They’re the blood that keeps the pumps drawing money and talent into the grinder of the Brotherhood.
Brenden moves fast. He twists back and grabs Ms. Shippens by the arm. Something metal flashes and suddenly he’s got a knife to her throat.
“Don’t scream.” He sounds very calm. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Say yes if you understand.”
“Yes.” Her voice comes out in a strained groan. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on. I was just told to keep you busy—“
“How do we get out of here?”
“The front—“
Brenden presses the blade tighter. The poor woman gags. “Another exit.”
“Back… back this way.”
“Take us. Move fast.”
Ms. Shippens turns. Brenden lowers the knife but keeps it close against her back.
I swallow against a lump of sickness in the back of my throat, afraid I might throw up from terror.
Behind us, the greasers are coming, likely summoned by the bank manager from the moment we came through the doors.
They pretended like everything was okay to keep us from trying to escape, and now they’re going to catch us and kill us.
“Hurry,” Brenden hisses. “Which way?”
Ms. Shippens takes us through several more hallways, past offices and other workers. A man drops files, eyes fixed in fright on the knife in Brenden’s hand. Another woman lets out a cry of alarm.
“Here, down here, there’s a back door, but the fire alarm—“ Ms. Shippens takes us into a back stairwell and straight ahead is an emergency exit.
Brenden shoves Ms. Shippens to the side. “Stay there. Don’t move if you want to get out of this alive.” The poor woman sags to the floor, crying into her hands.