Chapter 23
We left the state troopers to transport Arthur Vance to the county jail and sped back toward Denver. The city skyline loomed ahead, quiet and oblivious to the nightmare unfolding within its borders. Miller drove with reckless precision, calling the precinct to deploy a tactical unit to the prestigious address of Vance’s corporate law firm.
"If they are in that building, we have to move fast," Miller said, his jaw clenched tightly. "He wouldn't leave them unattended. He likely has a trusted associate holding them until the heat dies down."
We arrived at the towering glass-and-steel skyscraper just as the tactical vans pulled into the plaza. The building was dark, save for the emergency security lighting in the lobby.
Miller flashed his badge to the terrified night watchman, demanding access to the private underground parking garage and the restricted sub-basement levels.
"Mr. Vance has a private storage vault on sublevel three," the guard stammered, handing over a heavy ring of master keys. "No one is allowed down there without his explicit personal authorization."
We descended the concrete stairwell, our footsteps echoing loudly in the sterile, echoing space. The tactical team took the lead, sweeping the dark, subterranean hallways with their weapons drawn.
We reached a heavy steel door marked Archival Storage. It was locked with a heavy electronic keypad.
"Breach it," Miller ordered.
A tactical officer stepped forward with a heavy hydraulic ram. With two deafening strikes, the steel door buckled and groaned, finally swinging inward with a sharp metallic screech.
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I pushed past the officers, rushing into the dark room. It didn't look like an archival storage unit. It looked exactly like the holding room we had found in the mill. Heavy soundproofing foam lined the walls, and the air was thick and stale.
Huddled in the far corner of the room, clinging to each other in absolute terror, were three young children.
