Chapter 3 - The Subterranean Vault
The floor of the Grand Easter Ballroom vibrated softly beneath four hundred pairs of luxury evening shoes. The towering crystal chandeliers trembled above, their drops clicking together like tiny glass teeth.
Claire pulled Marcus’s olive jacket tighter around her chest, her hazel eyes wide with leftover terror as she looked at her father.
Claire: "Dad... what’s happening down there?"
Marcus kept his left arm positioned shielding Claire, his eyes scanning the crowd, monitoring the four security guards stationed near the rear kitchen doors.
Marcus: "The Beaumont Private Country Club isn't a social resort, Claire. It’s a hardened National Command shelter built during the Cold War."
Sheriff Pike pulled his glock service weapon halfway out of its leather holster, his voice rising in panic.
Sheriff Pike: "I’m orderin' you to unlock these doors right now, Reed! I’ve got six deputies outside on the driveway!"
Marcus looked at Pike with cold, clinical detachment.
Marcus: "Your deputies can't penetrate four inches of ballistic titanium plate, Raymond. The perimeter wall descended the second I initiated the Black Code."
Vivienne walked toward the center of the room, her high heels clicking loudly against the marble.
Vivienne: "Preston... get the emergency keys from the manager's office behind the bar."
Preston moved quickly toward the velvet-draped corridor leading to the executive offices, but as he reached the brass archway, a thick steel blast shutter dropped from the ceiling with a deafening CLANG, sealing the passage completely.
Preston jumped backward, stumbling over a wicker planter filled with white Easter lilies.
Preston: "It’s completely blocked! Everything’s shutting down!"
Marcus tapped the satellite receiver in his hand. A small green LED indicator blinked twice on its side.
Marcus: "The facility is operating under autonomous lockdown protocols. Nothing opens from the inside until the orbital uplink confirms the authorization sequence."
Vivienne turned her head, her sharp blue eyes locking onto Marcus with fierce, aristocratic hatred.
Vivienne: "Who gave you that card, Marcus? You retired twelve years ago after the Frankfurt disaster!"
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Marcus took a slow step toward her, his brown leather boots stepping firmly over the shattered champagne glass on the floor.
Marcus: "I didn't retire, Vivienne. I was placed on inactive reserve waiting for the Beaumont trust to trigger its secondary wire transfer."
