Shrapnel screamed through the air, ricocheting off the vault's steel walls with sharp, metallic pings.
A strong stench suddenly filled the air. Acrid. The smell of smoke and burnt wiring. And it choked the room, swirling in thick clouds as emergency lights started to blare red.
Three men stormed through the breached vault door, moving like predators, and their clothing allowed them to appear as such. They wore tactical gears with matte-black color, no logos, or brands, and their faces were hidden behind featureless masks.
They certainly weren't cops or soldiers. They were hired muscle. Darren knew instantly: 'Scotland's crew.'
If it wasn't them, then it was the Lotus Triad. But he wasn't sure which of them he would prefer.
He dove behind the reinforced pedestal, the cold wallet — a sleek, carbon-plated device holding 1,200,000 Bitcoins — pressed tight against his chest inside his coat.
