Chapter 27 · High-Pressure Breach

The tracker pulsed red against Garrett’s thumb.

Warm. Fresh.

Somebody tripped it ten minutes ago. Which meant they knew we’d cracked the vault before the tumblers even stopped spinning.

"Don't move," Garrett murmured.

"I'm breathing," I whispered back. "There's a difference."

He rolled the chip across his knuckles. No bigger than my thumbnail. Hair-thin copper wires embedded in a glob of black marine grease, tucked deep inside the cavity wall. Waiting for us.

His jaw ticked once. That was the whole reaction.

"Your family bugs their own strongroom," I said, teeth rattling. "That's not security, Garrett. That's a trap."

"It's a leash." He crushed the plastic casing in his fist until the plastic snapped. "They don't give a damn who finds the microfilm. They just want to bag whoever's holding it."

Boots hit the steel grating out in the corridor. Three men. Maybe four.

Heavy soles. Metal dragging behind them—a demo saw.

I shoved my shoulder blades against the freezing bulkhead and scanned the room like I’d scan a sinking hull. Nine inches of hardened plate on that vault door. Fresh grease on the wheel lock.