Chapter 4 - THE FIRE WAS TOO SMALL TO BE AN ACCIDENT
Sadi smelled electrical plastic.
Not wood.
Not paper.
A wiring fire.
Deliberate or convenient—either way, smoke was entering fast.
“Ventilation?” she asked.
“Sealed room.”
“Wonderful.”
Desmond hit the emergency call switch mounted beneath his chair.
Nothing.
“Jammed.”
Sadi grabbed a metal archive chair and slammed it against the keypad housing.
Desmond stared.
“What?”
“You said guns are in one of these rooms.”
“Next room.”
“Of course.”
She hit the housing again.
Cracked it.
No access.
Smoke thickened.
Desmond’s breathing changed.
Not panic.
But she knew his lungs had been damaged slightly in the bombing.
Smoke was dangerous.
Then he pointed toward the wall.
“Upper shelf.”
Sadi climbed.
“What am I looking for?”
“Red case.”
She found it.
Emergency archive preservation kit.
Inside:
Fire blankets.
Respirator masks.
Manual breaker tool.
“Finally, rich people preparing for something useful.”
Desmond almost laughed.
She fitted a mask over his face.
Then hers.
Used the breaker tool on the magnetic lock.
Nothing.
The power had been isolated externally.
Someone knew the system.
Then Desmond said:
“Vent duct.”
“There is one?”
“Behind the western shelves.”
They shoved records aside.
Sadi found the maintenance panel.
Too small for Desmond.
Large enough for her.
“No.”
He understood immediately.
“You’re not going alone.”
“You physically cannot fit.”
“Sadi.”
“You want to die because I hurt your feelings?”
His stare could have frozen water.
She opened the panel.
“I’m crawling ten feet to the utility corridor and opening the door.”
“What if someone is waiting?”
“Then I scream louder than they do.”
She disappeared into the duct.
Dust.
Heat.
Metal scraping her elbows.
Behind her, Desmond said:
“If you die in there, I’m firing you.”
She shouted back:
“If I die, payroll becomes irrelevant.”
At the utility hatch, she kicked twice.
It opened.
Empty corridor.
She ran to the breaker panel.
Restored archive circuit.
Alarm screamed.
Sprinklers activated.
The locked door released.
Sadi returned in time to see Frankie rushing toward Desmond.
“What happened?”
Frankie looked genuinely alarmed.
Maybe.
Desmond removed the respirator.
“Where were you?”
“West gate.”
“Who disabled this floor?”
Frankie turned toward the control box.
“I don’t know.”
Sadi watched him.
Then asked:
“Did you know Michael Callaway?”
Frankie stopped.
Everything changed.
His eyes moved toward her.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“Your father?”
“You knew exactly who I was when I arrived.”
Frankie looked toward Desmond.
“Boss—”
“Answer her.”
Frankie exhaled.
“Yes.”
Sadi’s anger became cold.
“How?”
“We worked together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he told me never to.”
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then why keep his secret?”
Frankie glanced at the smoke.
Then at the open archive.
“Because your father didn’t trust anyone in this house.”
Desmond’s jaw tightened.
“Including me?”
“You were twenty-two.”
“Not an answer.”
Frankie looked at him.
“No.”
Then he told them the 2011 fleet investigation never ended.
Michael Callaway discovered someone had installed remote-access ignition systems on Gallagher armored cars.
He removed several.
Reported the rest.
Management claimed the modules came from a legitimate anti-theft vendor.
Michael disagreed.
Then the maintenance facility exploded.
One man died.
Michael survived.
Afterward, he resigned.
Not fired.
He took evidence with him.
“What evidence?” Sadi asked.
Frankie’s face changed.
“A module.”
“The same kind used in Desmond’s car?”
“Maybe.”
“Where is it?”
Frankie looked directly at Sadi.
“Your father gave it to your mother.”
Sadi stopped breathing.
Her mother had died five years ago.
Everything she owned had gone into a storage locker after Sadi lost the apartment.
May you like
That locker was sold at auction six months earlier.
Exactly three days before Desmond Gallagher’s car exploded.
