Chapter 4 - Trapped in the Vault"Marco! Status!" Adrian barked, rushing back to the iron door and hammering his fist against the reinforced bars.
Marco checked his comms unit, his face pale. "Signal jammed, boss. The keypad's been overridden from the main security console upstairs. We're locked in."
"Who has master override codes besides you and Charles?" Adrian asked sharply.
"The building superintendent," Marco said, gritting his teeth. "A guy named Miller. But he disappeared from the lobby twenty minutes before the gala started."
Clara didn't panic. Years of working backstage taught her that every locked space in a theater had a secondary escape route designed for fire safety. She shone her flashlight along the low ceiling corners until she spotted a yellowed stencil marking: EMERGENCY EGRESS - RETAINING TUNNEL B.
"Over here!" Clara called out, climbing over a stack of cardboard boxes.
A heavy steel hatch was set low into the concrete floor, half-hidden beneath an old canvas tarp. It wasn't wired into the electronic security grid; it was an old-fashioned mechanical latch system installed during the Cold War fallout shelter era.
Adrian joined her instantly, gripping the rusted iron wheel handle. "Help me turn it."
With a combined heave, the rusted gears groaned, the heavy bolt disengaged, and the hatch swung upward, releasing a gust of damp, cool underground air that smelled of the nearby Chicago River.
"Where does this lead?" Marco asked, keeping his weapon drawn as he looked down the dark concrete ladder.
"Straight out to the old drainage culvert behind the loading docks," Clara said. "It's how the stage crew used to sneak out for smoke breaks when management wasn't looking."
"Good," Adrian said, stepping aside to let Clara descend first. "Because whoever locked us in is about to realize we didn't burn with the files."
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They moved swiftly through the narrow concrete tunnel, the sound of dripping water echoing around their footsteps. Within five minutes, they reached a rusted iron grating that opened directly into the shadows of the alleyway behind the Marlowe Opera House.
Rain had begun to fall, mixing with the freezing slush on the pavement. Parked fifty yards away near the loading bay was a sleek, black sedan with its engine running—and inside, through the tinted windshield, Clara caught the silhouette of Charles Whitaker talking urgently on a burner phone.
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