Chapter 5 - The Safe Deposit
Pierce reached into his coat pocket and slipped a tiny, clear specimen bag into my hand. Inside was a black, pill-sized USB flash drive, smeared with stomach acid and saline.
"Take it," Pierce urged softly. "Get out of here. Find out what's on that drive before whoever is hunting your family catches up to you. I'll watch Noah. I swear on my life, I will guard your son."
"Pierce... thank you," I choked out, squeezing his arm.
"Go out through the basement service tunnels," Pierce instructed. "Avoid the main lobby. The police think you're sitting in the pediatric lobby—if they realize you're gone, they'll issue an APB."
I didn't waste another second. I sprinted down the stairwell to the hospital basement, dodging linen carts and maintenance staff. My mind was racing. I had three clues:
The brass key stamped 408.
The GPS coordinates written on Laura's arm (39.7392° N, 104.9903° W).
The encrypted micro-drive in my pocket.
Once outside in the chilly morning air, I avoided my car, fearing the police might have attached a tracker to it or were watching it. Instead, I pulled my hoodie over my head and walked fast toward the public transit station two blocks away.
I pulled out my phone and typed the coordinates from Laura's arm into Google Maps.
The pin dropped in downtown Denver—specifically, the Union Storage & Vault Building, an old, high-security private locker facility operating 24/7.
Key #408. It was a locker at Union Storage.
Twenty minutes later, after riding a crowded light rail train while constantly looking over my shoulder, I stood in front of the ornate, stone facade of the Union Storage building. The morning sun was just starting to crest over the Denver skyline, bathing the concrete in a pale golden light.
I walked into the lobby. A sleepy clerk sat behind a bulletproof glass window.
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.
"Locker 408," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I pulled the brass key from my pocket and laid it on the tray under the glass.
The clerk checked his computer screen. "Name?"
"Ethan Walker," I lied, praying the account wasn't under a fake name like Noah's motel registration.
The clerk scanned the key's barcode and checked the system. "Signature required. And thumbprint scan."
My heart stopped. Thumbprint scan?
"Is there a problem, sir?" the clerk asked, looking up.
"No," I said quickly. "My wife... Laura Walker... she usually handles this. Is her thumbprint on file?"
The clerk typed something. "Laura Walker is an authorized co-signer, yes. But if you aren't registered, I can't let you back there."
"Please," I whispered, leaning against the glass. "My wife was attacked last night. She's in a coma at St. Mercy. She wrote these coordinates on her skin before she collapsed. She wanted me to get what's in locker 408."
The clerk looked at me, then at my blood-stained scrub pants and exhausted eyes. He saw the genuine agony on my face. He didn't say a word. He pushed a biometric scanner through the tray.
"Try your thumb," he said quietly. "Sometimes spouses register each other's biometrics during setup."
I pressed my right thumb onto the glass panel. The light turned red. Denied.
I felt a wave of absolute despair. Then I remembered Laura’s habits. She always used her left index finger for everything—her phone, her laptop, her car door. When she bought me my tablet, she had made me register my left index finger so I could use it easily while holding coffee.
I pressed my left index finger onto the glass.
BEEP. The scanner glowed green.
ACCESS GRANTED: WALKER ACCOUNT.
The clerk nodded toward the heavy iron door on the left. "Locker 408 is down hall C. You have ten minutes before the security system auto-locks the aisle."
I rushed through the heavy door into a long, dimly lit corridor lined with thousands of metal lockboxes. I ran down Hall C, searching the numbers until I found it.
408.
I inserted the brass key into the lock and turned it. The heavy steel door clicked open.
Inside the locker was a single black leather laptop case. I pulled it out and unzipped it.
There was no laptop inside.
Instead, there were three items:
A thick manila folder labeled PROJECT APEX.
May you like
A handheld dark-web satellite router.
A framed photograph of my brother Mason, standing next to a man I recognized instantly from the news—Mayor Richard Vance, the city's lead mayoral candidate... and Detective Vance's husband.
