Chapter 4 - The Ambush in the Archives
By Wednesday evening, the sky over Minneapolis had turned a bruising, dark purple as a massive winter blizzard swept in from the north. Heavy, wet snow rattled against the windows of the Municipal Archives Building on Fourth Street.
The basement archives were cold, smelling of ancient paper, dust, and concrete dust.
Clare sat alone at a long oak table under a single hanging lightbulb, surrounded by tall steel shelves holding thirty years of physical deed filings.
She was exhausted. Her eyes burned from hours of reading microscopic land grant registry numbers, but she was holding the smoking gun in her hands.
It was an original notarized property transfer from six years ago. Wesley Hartwell’s signature was clearly stamped on the bottom of the Meridian Maritime incorporation deed, right beside the name of a corrupt city building inspector who had been fired two years ago for bribery.
"Got you," Clare whispered to the empty room, a tired, triumphant smile on her face.
She pulled out her smartphone to snap a photo of the document to text to Leandro.
Snap.
Before she could press send, the lights in the basement archives flickered once, twice, and went completely dark.
Clare froze.
The silence in the basement was absolute, broken only by the faint, muffled hum of the blizzard howling through the street vents high above.
"Clare?" a voice called out from the dark stairs.
It wasn't Leandro’s voice.
It was Wesley Hartwell.
Clare’s blood turned to ice. She slowly stood up from her wooden chair, sliding her phone into her cardigan pocket while reaching out with her left hand to touch the heavy steel shelf behind her.
A beam of light cut through the pitch-black hallway as Wesley walked down the concrete stairs, holding a heavy tactical flashlight. Behind him stepped a tall, thick-set man in a greasy canvas jacket—a man with heavy knuckles and a broken nose.
"I had a feeling I’d find you down here," Wesley said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He sounded nervous, breathless, and volatile. "Blair’s sister works in the records department. She said you spent three hours requesting the old Meridian archives."
Clare backed up slowly, her heels making quiet clicking sounds on the concrete floor. "Wesley, you shouldn't be down here. The archives are closed to the public after five."
"Shut up, Clare!" Wesley snapped, stepping closer, flashing the bright beam of light directly into her eyes, blinding her. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Leandro Vitali frozen all our corporate credit lines this morning! He slapped a emergency freeze on the North Loop site!"
"Because you put fake bolts in a twenty-story building, Wesley!" Clare said, her voice rising with quiet strength as she tried to keep her distance. "You put people's lives at risk so you could line your pockets!"
"It was business!" Wesley yelled, his face twisted in rage. "Everyone skims! Everyone cuts corners! But you—you fat, insignificant little record clerk—you had to run to that scarred freak and play hero!"
The large man beside Wesley stepped forward, pulling a heavy steel crowbar from his jacket pocket.
"Give me the folder, Clare," Wesley spat, extending his hand. "Give me the Meridian deed, or my friend here is going to drop twenty boxes of old court files on your head and lock the fire door from the outside. Nobody’s coming down here until Friday morning. You’ll freeze before anyone finds you."
Clare’s back hit the end of the aisle. A cold brick wall blocked her retreat.
She gripped the paper folder tightly against her chest. She looked at the heavy man with the crowbar. Fear clutched at her throat, but deep inside her chest, a fiery, stubborn spark refused to yield.
"No," Clare said clearly.
Wesley blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"
"I said no," Clare said, her hazel-green eyes flashing in the flashlight beam. "You're a coward, Wesley. You were a coward at Table Nine, and you're a coward down here in the dark."
Wesley’s face went red. "Hit her, Marcus! Grab the folder!"
The large man raised the crowbar, stepping forward.
BANG!
The heavy steel fire door at the top of the basement stairs blew open with the force of a battering ram, slamming against the concrete wall with a sound like a cannon shot.
Flashlights flooded the dark basement with brilliant white light.
Heavy tactical boots thundered down the stairs.
Before Wesley or his muscle could even turn around, two men in black tactical vests slammed the large man into the metal shelving, disarming the crowbar with a sharp, agonizing CRACK of bone. The crowbar clattered harmlessly across the floor.
Wesley screamed in terror, dropping his flashlight as he was thrown face-first onto the cold concrete floor, a heavy combat boot pinning his neck down.
Through the flashing white lights and the dust, a towering figure walked slowly down the stairs.
Leandro.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo or a three-piece suit tonight. He wore a long black cashmere overcoat, his dark hair dusted with white snow from the storm outside. His cloudy left eye reflected the flashlights like pale glass, while his right eye swept over the room like a furnace.
He stepped over Wesley’s writhing body on the floor, completely ignoring the man’s whimpers of terror.
He walked straight to Clare.
"Are you hurt?" Leandro asked. His voice was shaking—not with fear, but with a terrifying, violent rage that made the security guards in the room hold their breath.
"I’m okay," Clare whispered, her voice trembling slightly as the adrenaline began to fade. "I’m fine, Leandro. I have the paper."
Leandro reached out. His broad, warm hands gently cupped her face, his thumbs smoothing over her cheeks, checking her skin, her neck, her shoulders as if she were made of precious glass.
"If he touched you," Leandro whispered, his breath hot against her skin, "I would have buried him under six feet of North Loop concrete before midnight."
Clare looked into his scarred face, feeling the intense, overwhelming heat of his hands, and she knew—with absolute, undeniable certainty—that he meant every single word.
She leaned her head slightly into his hand, closing her eyes for a brief second.
"I’m okay," she repeated softly. "Take me home."
Leandro turned his head toward his head security guard.
"Call the police," Leandro commanded coldness. "Hand Hartwell and his dog over to the state prosecutor along with the fraud files. Make sure his father knows that if a single lawyer tries to post bail for him tonight, I will buy every debt note his family firm owes in the state of Minnesota."
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Vitali," the guard answered instantly.
Leandro wrapped his long black overcoat around Clare’s shoulders, pulling her flush against his side, his heavy arm locking securely around her waist as he guided her up the stairs into the snow.
