Chapter 7 - The Vault of Echoes
Dev did not break his stride. He walked straight out of the alley toward the roaring main boulevard, the brass tip of his cane striking the pavement with rhythmic, metallic clicks. Behind him, the motorcycle’s engine growled at low idle, trailing him like a hunting hound tracking blood.
Dev turned abruptly into the marble-columned facade of the Imperial Bank of Delhi. The building was an imposing remnant of the British era, complete with vaulted stone ceilings and armed guards carrying vintage shotguns.
The security officer at the front desk stepped forward, his eyes assessing Dev’s sharp navy suit, his weathered face, and the undeniable aura of wealth that exuded from his posture despite the old-fashioned cut of his clothes. The guard bowed instinctively. ""Sir? How may we assist you?""
""Vault manager,"" Dev said, his voice deep, resonant, and giving no quarter for negotiation. ""Immediately.""
Ten minutes later, Dev stood in the chilled, subterranean belly of the bank, surrounded by rows of steel safety deposit boxes. The manager, a sweaty middle-aged man named Sharma, nervously adjusted his tie as he verified the ancient ledger.
""Locker 404,"" Sharma stuttered. ""Sir, this box has a dual-custody clause dating back to 1984. It belongs to the Varma Estate. Only the primary founder, Devendra Varma, or the active CEO can open it.""
""Open it,"" Dev said, placing his right hand on the mahogany counter. The silver serpent signet ring gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Sharma’s eyes bulged. He stared at the ring, then looked up into Dev’s face, catching the distinct jagged scar running along his jawline—the legendary mark of the 1986 crash. ""M-Mr. Varma? But you... the records say you were incinerated forty years ago!""
""Do not concern yourself with my theology, Sharma,"" Dev said coldly, producing the brass key. ""Turn the master cylinder, or I will ensure your branch undergoes an external audit by midnight.""
Trembling, Sharma inserted the master key into Box 404. Dev inserted the small brass key. With a heavy, satisfying clunk, the steel door swung open.
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Inside lay a single leather-bound journal and a digital audio recorder. Dev flipped the journal open. On the first page, handwritten in frantic black ink by Vikram, were the words: Rajan paid the mechanics. He is selling the company to the cartel. If you find this, protect Meera.
Dev pocketed the recorder. But as he turned to leave, the steel security gate at the entrance of the vault slammed shut, locking him inside.
