Chapter 13 - The Wall Behind the Masterpiece
The roar of the reciprocating saw cut through the midnight silence of Whisper Creek.
Jack held the saw steady, teeth biting through half-inch drywall behind where Vanessa's massive abstract painting had hung.
Plaster dust fell like snowfall onto the hardwood floor.
Maya stood beside him holding an industrial flashlight, her tactical vest strapped tight over a black hoodie.
"Eleanor wouldn't come all the way to Malibu just to bluff," Maya said, watching the blade chew through pine studs.
"She doesn't bluff," Jack said through his dust mask. "In Kabul, she managed three billion in supply contracts."
"If something went missing under her watch, people didn't get fired. They disappeared."
The saw blade hit metal with a sharp, shrieking screech.
Jack immediately killed the trigger.
The high-pitched whine of the motor spun down into complete quiet.
Maya stepped in close, angling the beam of the flashlight into the jagged rectangular hole.
Behind the fiberglass insulation sat a matte-black Pelican steel lockbox, welded directly to the structural steel I-beam.
"Marcus Vance was more paranoid than we thought," Maya whispered.
"He wasn't paranoid," Jack replied, setting the saw down. "He was terrified."
Jack reached inside the cavity, inspecting the electronic lock mounted on the box.
It required an eight-digit hexadecimal passcode and a biometric thumbprint.
"Can you crack it?" Jack asked.
Maya pulled a compact cyber-forensics field kit from her thigh pocket.
"If it's running standard commercial firmware, yes. If it's DOD-grade, we’ll need twenty-four hours."
She plugged a braided ribbon cable directly into the data port beside the fingerprint glass.
Her handheld diagnostic monitor lit up in fluorescent green letters.
"It's running an old DARPA protocol," Maya murmured, her fingers flying over the keypads.
"Marcus didn't write this encryption. Eleanor did."
"Try Marcus’s old battalion deployment date," Jack suggested. "He was vain enough to use it."
Maya punched in the eight digits.
The lock groaned. A solenoid clicked back with the heavy snap of a chambered round.
The steel door swung open on oiled hinges.
Inside lay three black enterprise-grade solid-state drives, sealed in anti-static sleeves.
Resting on top of them was a silver digital recorder and a velvet pouch.
Jack picked up the recorder and pressed play.
Vanessa's voice echoed through the empty bedroom, high, breathy, and laced with panic.
*Marcus, she knows. Eleanor knows about the Cayman transfers. She said if the Whisper Creek deed isn't finalized by Friday, she's sending the transport team.*
Then came Marcus’s voice, sharp and frantic:
*Shut up, Vanessa. The house is the only leverage we have. The deed to Whisper Creek sits on top of an old munitions right-of-way.*
*Eleanor doesn't care about the mansion. She cares about the bunker beneath the foundation.*
Jack stopped the tape.
He and Maya looked at each other in the gloom.
"What bunker?" Maya whispered.
Jack walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lower lawn and the dark Pacific beyond.
"In the 1950s, this whole ridge was an artillery surveillance outpost for the Nike missile grid."
Jack tapped his cane against the solid oak floorboards.
"Marcus Vance didn't marry Vanessa into this house to rob my personal accounts."
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"He was looking for the hatch."
***
