The underground vault beneath the Black Tiger Gang stronghold was twelve feet square, lined with dry-laid river granite and roofed with seasoned oak beams.
The air inside was cool, dry, and thick with the heavy, clear scent of wealth piled up through violence. The dusty stone tang of cold silver, the faint sweetness of damp silk, and the rich, pungent aroma of aged spirits steeping in sealed terracotta jars.
Pei Lang held an oil lantern high, its amber light lighting up three heavy iron-banded cedar chests resting on stone bases.
Beside the chests sat five large terracotta wine jars, their necks wrapped in red oiled silk and sealed with hardened beeswax stamped with the crest of a northern military commissary.
Pei Jing knelt before the largest cedar chest.
He took the second bronze key from Hu Biao’s key ring, pushed in it into the front latch. Then he turned it with a sharp, oily click.
CLACK.
He threw the heavy lid open.
