THE TRILLIONAIRE BUTLER

Chapter 9

Eric’s breathing was shallow, nearly silent. The steel lock glared at him, reinforced and encoded with dual biometric encryption. One wrong move, just one, and the internal alarm automatically alerts the Presidential Security Unit.

He rolled back his sleeves, sweat lining his brow. He had already made two failed attempts and was now left with one last chance.

His first attempt was rushed. The second is overly cautious. He had thirty seconds to analyse the tumblers. Else…

He inserted the pick, closed his eyes, and listened.

Click… pause… click… louder click.

He adjusted the angle, holding his breath.

Tiny mechanisms groaned inside the chamber as if protesting his intrusion. The sweat slid down his spine. Any louder, and they would echo through the hallway.

He checked the timer on his watch.

19 seconds left.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Talk to me…”

Click.

Then silence, nothing moved.

The red light blinked, and with one final push, he shifted the pick gently upward. And click, there was a green light, and it unlocked.

The lock hissed, depressurized, and the bolt slid back.

Good. Eric sighed with relief as he slipped out of the chamber like a prey that had just escaped death.

Time was running out; he had 45 minutes to steal the gold and seal his own side of the promise he made to Big 5.

Just as he turned the corner, the elevator doors to the hallway dinged open and Lady Fredith, dressed flamboyantly in glitter and lace, stepped out and walked straight ahead towards her chambers.

Minutes later, there was a scream from her chamber.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Eric smiled like the Devil; his plan was working. She’d seen it. The DNA report, the photos, the blood sample report, and the sealed envelope stamped with the discreet lab’s mark.

Eric descended into the secured vault chamber, a heavily protected room beneath the East Wing. The walls were lined with polished titanium. The air was cold and dry, like a bank’s interior, but it held more than money. It held gold.

The gold was stacked in thick ingots, labelled with Latin serial codes, and pressed in neat columns.

Two guards were posted earlier but were now gone, diverted by Lady Fredith’s shrieking outrage upstairs.

He approached the main vault door, which was the final barrier.

The digital display read:

RECOGNITION REQUIRED. MANUAL OVERRIDE TIMER: 02:00 MINUTES.

Eric opened the dial and pressed his ears against the lock system.

The timer started.

2:00

The system pushed back.

Eric cursed.

1:32

He tapped into a second mechanism and listened as the gears turned. He prayed it worked.

The screen flickered.

1:09

Processing…

Processing…

ACCESS GRANTED. RESET INITIATED.

Eric nearly collapsed in relief.

0:58

The vault’s locking mechanism began to retract, and thick steel arms rolled back one by one with a mechanical groan.

As he stepped inside, he got the shock of his life: There was no gold; not one bar. Not even a trace.

The room that should’ve glowed with stacked fortune was empty, sterile and cold with bare metal shelves and vacant pallets.

Except that at the centre of it all was a single sheet of paper,folded and torn at the edges, written in bold, messy red scrawl.

He walked over, heart racing, sweat cooling across his spine.

It read:

SMILE, ERIC – Q.T.

Eric’s hand dropped.

"Quentin," he muttered.

And for a moment, reality dawned on him: He'd been outplayed by Quentin Tate.

Behind him, heavy footsteps and a loud, guttural roar.

“FREEZE!! HANDS IN THE AIR!”

Bright beams of light exploded across his body as security floodlamps and rifles were raised. Footsteps rushed in from every direction, and red dots danced across his chest.

The vault swarmed with security operatives.

And then came the slow, crude laughter of DSS Malcolm, the one that sounds like a villain straight out of a Hollywood movie.

“Who do we have here? If it isn't the butler-turned-bandit,’ Malcolm laughed, walking out of the shadows with measured steps.

“Are you missing something, Eric?”

Eric’s jaw clenched.

“Let me guess, Quentin left you a little love note?”

Eric didn’t speak.

Malcolm turned to the guards.

“You know, I almost feel bad. The man clearly has ambition. And a taste for high ceilings and higher gold piles. But…” He spun dramatically. “…he was born to polish boots, not steal from kings.”

One of the guards laughed.

Eric’s voice finally cracked out.

“Where’s the gold?”

Malcolm smiled as if amused by a child’s question.  

“Gone, my friend. Long gone. Airlifted out of this country before you even touched your lock pick. Quentin was just... the icing on your humiliation cake.”

Eric stared. “She played both sides.”

Malcolm shrugged.

“That’s what Tate’s daughter does best. Well, Carter’s daughter, if we’re being technical.”

“You see, I let you run around. Gave you space to chase shadows. You distracted Hillary, Carter, even Raynor. But you? You were just the diversion I needed.”

Eric’s voice dropped low. “So this was all a setup.”

“You were the setup,” Malcolm corrected. “You broke in. You tampered with locks. You infiltrated a presidential vault. No one will believe a thing you say now, even if you scream it in five languages.”

“You’ll regret this,” Eric said.

Malcolm stepped closer, leaned in.

“Will I?” he whispered, venom-smooth.  

“Because right now… I’ve got the gold. The President trusts me. And you? You’re just a criminal, standing in a locked room, surrounded by men with guns. You tell me, what exactly am I going to regret?”

Eric’s lips curled into a tight smirk. “Not killing me when you had the chance.”

Malcolm pulled back, amused again.

“Oh, we’re not done yet. There’s still the trial. The press. Maybe even a photo op. I might invite Clara to testify. You know, let her watch her old lover fall apart.”

He turned to the guards.  “Cuff him hard. We’ll let the press eat this up by morning.”

As the guards approached and were about to shut the cuffs around his wrists, the White House alarm wailed.

The Whitehouse has been breached.