My fingers turned the dial—heavy and smooth, weighted by quality, and velvet with the feel of precision. After landing on the last digit, I spun the banker’s wheel and the door opened with a soft suck of air. The lights came on as the door opened, and my eyes quickly scanned the interior. The rifles stood at attention in a gun rack that ran across the back wall. To the right, three cherry wood cases held pistols, labeled and spaced evenly on green velvet, the glass lids sloped at an angle for easy display. I pulled out the .357 and looked around for ammunition. Drawers, custom built into the wall next to the display tables, seemed to be the perfect place for ammunition. I tucked my fingers into the pull slot, and opened the top drawer. The ammo was not there, but I stopped breathing as I stared at stacks of cold, hard cash—hundred-dollar bills banded into packages, ten thousand dollars to a pack. The drawer was filled from top to bottom, back to front, and side-to-side.
