Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the VentThe roof of the 26th Street warehouse was slick with black ice.
Immani lay flat on her stomach, the freezing metal of the industrial air duct pressing through her thin coat. The wind whipped across the flat asphalt roof, carrying the smell of diesel fuel and old river mud from the canal two blocks away.
Below her, through the narrow rusted slats of the roof vent, she could hear voices.
"He's dead, I'm telling you," a man’s voice echoed from the main floor below. "Julian said they found his coat soaked in blood by the river. We're standing out here in a damn blizzard for nothing."
"Julian said wait until midnight, so we wait until midnight," a second voice grunted. "Shut up and pass the thermos."
Immani drew a slow, quiet breath.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the small screwdriver she had taken from her kitchen drawer, and began working on the four rusted screws holding the vent cover in place.
Click. Click. Click.
She worked with agonizing slowness. Every time the wind gusted, she turned the screw half an inch, letting the roar of the gale drown out the metallic squeak of the rust.
Finally, the fourth screw came loose.
She lifted the heavy iron grate, set it softly on a pile of drifted snow, and looked down into the square, dark opening.
It was narrow—barely eighteen inches wide.
She didn't allow herself to think. If she thought about the darkness, about the forty-foot drop below, or about the two armed men sitting fifty feet away in the main bay, her body would freeze. She wiggled her shoulders into the galvanized steel shaft, pulled her legs in after her, and began to slide down into the shadows.
The metal was freezing, leeching the heat from her palms instantly.
She moved like a shadow—elbows first, knees dragging lightly against the duct lining, using the friction techniques she used when climbing the high window scaffolding at The Pinnacle.
Ten feet down. Fifteen feet.
The duct angled sharply to the left, opening into a small, suspended junction box directly above the secondary office.
Immani peeked through the lower vent slats.
The office below was dark, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside the dirt-streaked windows. A heavy metal desk sat in the center of the room, covered in old newspapers and empty coffee cups.
No guards inside the room.
She pushed the lower vent grate open with her boots, held her breath, and lowered herself through the opening.
She hung by her hands for a second, her arms trembling with exertion, then dropped softly onto the dusty carpet below.
Thump.
It was barely louder than a cat landing on a rug, but in the dead silence of the warehouse, it sounded like a gunshot to her ears.
She froze, her back pressed against the wall, her heart slamming against her throat.
Outside the office door, footsteps paused.
"You hear that?" a guard called out.
"Hear what? It's the wind rattling the roof panels. Sit your ass down."
The footsteps resumed, moving away toward the front loading bay.
Immani let out a long, silent stream of air through her teeth. She dropped to her knees behind the heavy metal desk, her fingers searching the floorboards.
One oak plank felt slightly loose, its edges missing the thick layer of dust that covered the rest of the floor.
She wedged her screwdriver beneath the wood, popped the plank up, and slid it aside.
There, embedded in the dark concrete subfloor, sat a square black steel box with a mechanical brass dial.
Her fingers were shaking so badly she could barely grip the metal dial.
14... right. She turned it slowly, counting the soft, almost imperceptible clicks against her thumb.
32... left. The dial spun smoothly, well-oiled despite the dust.
09... right.
CLACK.
The heavy steel latch disengaged with a solid, metallic pop.
Immani pulled the heavy door open.
Inside lay a thick, leather-bound ledger with brass corners, alongside three stacks of crisp, hundred-dollar bills wrapped in paper bands, and a dark silver USB flash drive.
She didn't touch the money. She grabbed the leather book and the flash drive, stuffing them deep inside her coat pocket, zip-fastening the pocket tight.
She stood up, preparing to climb back up to the desk to reach the vent.
CREAK.
The office door handle slowly turned.
Immani’s blood ran cold.
The door swung open, and the taller guard—the one with the thermos—stepped into the doorway, holding a flashlight in one hand and a heavy black pistol in the other.
The beam of light swept across the room, bouncing off the metal desk, off the open floorboard, and landed directly on Immani’s face.
The guard’s eyes went wide.
"What the—"
Immani didn't wait.
She grabbed the heavy iron desk lamp beside her, swung it with every ounce of strength in her body, and slammed it straight into the side of the man’s head.
CRACK!
The glass bulb shattered, the metal base catching the guard square across the temple. He let out a choked grunt, his knees buckling instantly, and crashed face-first onto the dusty carpet, his gun skittering across the floor.
"Hey! Tony! What's going on in there?" the second guard’s voice roared from the hallway.
Immani didn't look back. She didn't look at the fallen man.
She scrambled onto the desk, reached up, grabbed the edges of the open ceiling vent, and hauled herself up into the dark metal shaft just as the second guard burst into the office, his gun raised.
"TONY!" the man screamed, seeing his partner unconscious on the floor. "WE GOT AN INTRUDER! SHUT DOWN THE GATES!"
Shouts echoed through the warehouse below.
Immani crawled through the narrow metal duct like a woman possessed, her knees scraping against the rivets, her lungs burning for air, driven by pure, unadulterated terror.
She burst out onto the icy roof into the howling blizzard, kicked the vent cover into the shaft behind her, and ran toward the fire escape at the back of the building.
Below in the alley, waiting beside a rusted dumpster in the swirling snow, stood a dark gray delivery van.
The side door slid open.
Cade Jin-Wu stood in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe with one hand, his face pale, his dark eyes locked onto her as she sprinted down the iron steps of the fire escape.
"JUMP!" he shouted over the roar of the wind.
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Immani didn't hesitate. She threw herself off the bottom rungs of the ladder, launching her body through the air, and landed hard on the floor of the moving van just as a gunshot shattered the glass of the warehouse door behind them.
The van’s tires spun on the ice, caught traction, and sped away into the blinding white night.
