Chapter 9 - The Heist at the Tower
At six o'clock on a freezing March morning, a light grey fog hung low over Boston Harbor, swallowing the high granite arches of the Custom House Tower.
A sleek black Mercedes—purchased by Callum two days prior under an untraceable corporate name—pulled up to the curb two blocks away from the tower entrance.
Inside the car, Maeve adjusted the collar of a high-end designer trench coat. Her dark hair was pinned neatly beneath a silk scarf, and she carried a sleek leather briefcase on her lap. Beside her, Frank Vance sat in the driver’s seat, checking his suppressed sidearm before sliding it into his coat pocket.
In the backseat, Callum sat in absolute silence, his dark eyes fixed on the entrance of the tower. He had spent the last two hours reviewing every step of the plan, his face tight with a quiet tension that made even Frank uncomfortable.
“Two minutes, Maeve,” Callum said softly, his voice low and raspy. “Russo’s driver takes the ledger down to the front desk at six-fifteen for the courier service to pick up at seven. You have a ten-minute window before the real courier arrives.”
Maeve reached for the door handle.
Before she could pull it, Callum’s hand caught her wrist—gentle, warm, and firm.
He pulled her toward him, leaning across the leather seat, and kissed her gently on the lips—a deep, protective kiss that tasted of dark coffee and quiet devotion.
“Be careful,” he whispered against her skin.
“I’ll be five minutes,” she replied, smiling softly.
She stepped out of the Mercedes into the freezing morning mist.
Her heels clicked rhythmically against the wet pavement as she walked toward the grand glass entrance of the Custom House Tower. Her heart was beating fast, but her hands were steady. Three years of maintaining absolute composure under Callum Vale’s silent roof had prepared her for this moment far better than any mob training ever could.
She pushed through the revolving glass doors into the polished marble lobby.
Behind the high oak reception desk sat a sleepy security guard, flipping through a newspaper while a pot of coffee brewed on the counter behind him. On the brass counter sat a thick, sealed Manila envelope stamped with the logo of the federal courthouse.
Maeve walked up to the desk with a bright, professional smile.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice smooth and unhurried. “I’m here for the priority legal pickup for the District Attorney’s office.”
The guard looked up, taking in her expensive coat, her professional demeanor, and the sleek leather briefcase in her hand.
“You’re early,” the guard muttered, reaching for his logbook. “Courier service isn't usually here until seven.”
“Mr. Russo requested an expedited delivery to beat the morning traffic on Interstate 93,” Maeve replied without a second’s hesitation. “He wanted to make sure Agent Miller received it before his eight o'clock briefing.”
The guard nodded, entirely unfazed. He slid the heavy Manila envelope across the polished stone counter toward her. “Sign here, miss.”
Maeve picked up the brass pen, signing a fake name in neat, flowing cursive. She took the envelope, slid it smoothly into her leather briefcase, and snapped the brass locks shut.
“Have a good morning,” she said with a polite nod.
She turned and began walking back toward the revolving doors.
Suddenly, the elevator doors at the far end of the lobby opened with a sharp chime.
Two men stepped out into the lobby. Both wore long leather coats, had shaved heads, and carried heavy leather travel bags. One of them was Joey ‘The Hammer’ Russo.
Russo’s eyes swept across the lobby, locking onto the back of Maeve’s trench coat as she reached the glass doors.
“Hey!” Russo yelled, his rasping voice echoing through the vaulted space. “Who the hell is that? Check the desk!”
The security guard blinked, startled. “She just took the courthouse envelope, Mr. Russo!”
“Stop her!” Russo screamed, pulling a heavy black handgun from beneath his leather coat. “She’s got the ledger!”
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Maeve didn't panic.
She pushed hard against the revolving glass door, bursting out onto the cold, foggy street just as the first gunshot shattered the glass behind her with a deafening CRACK.
