The thought of an employee accidentally getting locked inside during a time-lock cycle terrified me.
So, I insisted on a failsafe.
I had the contractors install a manual, mechanical override on the inside of the door, and a hardwired emergency rotary phone hidden behind one of the false safety deposit boxes along the back wall.
Only three people in the world knew about it: me, the architect who had died ten years ago, and my late wife.
Robert didn't know.
He only knew what he read on the modern blueprints.
I rolled onto my side and violently dragged my bound wrists against the sharp metal edge of a low shelving unit.
The plastic zip-tie dug deeply into my flesh, slicing the skin, but I ignored the warm rush of blood.
I sawed my wrists back and forth with every ounce of strength I had left.
My breathing grew ragged.
The pain in my chest flared, a heavy, crushing weight pressing against my sternum.
Snap.
The thick plastic tie suddenly gave way.
My arms fell to my sides, completely numb and tingling with painful pins and needles.
I didn't waste a second.
I crawled on my hands and knees across the cold floor, running my hands along the wall until I felt the cold brass of the safety deposit boxes.
I needed box 114.
I counted the rows by touch in the dark.
Row one. Row two. Row three.
I found the seam of box 114.
There was no keyhole.
I pressed my thumbs hard against the brass faceplate and pushed upward.
The metal panel popped off with a quiet click, revealing a dark, hollow cavity in the wall.
I reached inside.
My fingers brushed against cold, hard plastic.
It was the receiver of an old, heavy rotary telephone.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over me.
I pulled the receiver to my ear and listened.
A clear, steady dial tone hummed in the darkness.
It worked.
The line was hardwired directly to the city’s underground copper grid, completely separate from the modern digital network Robert controlled upstairs.
I didn't call the police first.
I dialed the direct cell phone number of John Miller, the retired detective who had run my personal corporate security for twenty years.
He answered on the second ring.
"Miller," a gruff voice answered.
"John," I wheezed, my voice barely a whisper. "It's Arthur."
"Mr. Pendleton?" Miller asked, his tone instantly sharpening. "Where are you? Your housekeeper said you vanished this morning."
"I'm locked in the sub-basement vault of the flagship store," I gasped, clutching my chest. "Robert is here. He’s liquidating the inventory to a black-market buyer. He knows I’m here. He left me down here to die."
Silence hung on the line for a fraction of a second.
"I am three blocks away," Miller said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm, tactical register. "I'm calling the precinct. We will hit the doors in three minutes. Do not hang up."
I dropped the receiver, leaving it dangling by its cord.
I crawled away from the wall, making my way to the massive steel door.
I felt the smooth, cold surface until I found the small, recessed rectangular panel near the floor.
I popped the cover off.
Inside was a heavy red lever.
The internal mechanical override.
I sat with my back against the cold steel, clutching my chest, and waited.
Every second felt like an hour.
My vision began to swim, black spots dancing in the darkness.
I was losing consciousness.
Then, I heard it.
A faint, muffled crash coming from the floors above.
The sound of shattering glass.
Shouts.
Heavy boots hitting the marble floor.
I reached down, gripped the red lever with both hands, and pulled it down with all the strength I had left.
A loud, mechanical clank echoed through the vault.