I pressed my back against the wall, inching toward the open doorway. I peeked around the thick steel frame, expecting to see Gerald stacking crates onto a hand truck.
What I saw sent a violent shockwave through my entire nervous system.
The six wooden crates of 1945 Romanée-Conti wine were neatly stacked near the center of the room. Sitting on top of the crates were the remaining three missing Renaissance bronze statuettes.
But Gerald wasn't there.
Standing in the center of the vault, casually flipping through Gerald’s leather-bound inventory ledger, was the homeless man.
He was still wearing the filthy coat, but his knit cap was gone. His posture was imposing, confident, projecting absolute authority.
I stepped into the doorway, unable to process the impossibility of the scene.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded in a harsh, panicked whisper. "The biometric lock… it only opens for Gerald Thorne or Mr. Whitmore. If you used Gerald’s pass, where is he?"
The man looked up from the ledger. Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the vault, I could finally see his face clearly. Beneath the smears of charcoal and soot, his features were sharp, aristocratic, and immaculately groomed.
He didn't look like a beggar anymore. He looked like a king standing in his own castle.
"I didn't use Gerald’s pass, Grace," the man said softly. The deep, commanding baritone of his voice echoed perfectly off the stone walls of the cellar.
Before my mind could connect the massive, terrifying dots, the heavy mechanical hum of the service elevator groaned down the hallway.
The man quickly shoved the leather ledger into his large coat pocket and stepped in front of the wine crates.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
Heavy boots hit the floor.
Gerald Thorne and Victor Haines stepped into the hallway and marched directly toward the open vault door.
I tried to run, but Victor spotted me immediately. He lunged forward, grabbing the back of my jacket and violently throwing me into the wine cellar.
I crashed onto the stone floor, scraping my palms.
Victor stepped into the room, pulling a heavy 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. He racked the slide with a terrifying, metallic snap, pointing the barrel directly at my chest.
Gerald walked slowly in behind him, stopping abruptly when he saw the homeless man standing next to the crates.
Gerald’s arrogant smirk instantly vanished. A look of deep, profound confusion washed over his face.
"How the hell did this vagrant get past the perimeter security?" Gerald hissed, turning violently toward his security chief. "Victor, you told me the gate was secured!"
Victor looked just as shocked, his gun trembling slightly as he swung the barrel between me and the man in the dirty coat. "I don't know, boss. I threw her in the bunker. I didn't see him."
Gerald sneered, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. He looked at the two of us, evaluating the situation with the cold calculation of a true sociopath.
"It doesn't matter," Gerald said smoothly, stepping back toward the door. "This actually works out perfectly. The police will believe the desperate maid hired a street thug to help her break into the vault."
Gerald looked at Victor and nodded toward me.
"Kill the vagrant," Gerald ordered cleanly. "Then shoot the maid, and put the gun in the vagrant's hand. Let's wrap this up before the buyer’s van arrives. The billionaire is dead anyway. No one is coming to save them."