The tunnel beneath the pier was a claustrophobic vein of damp earth and rusted metal, its air thick with the scent of salt and decay. Lena Hart’s flashlight beam trembled as she punched her birthday—four digits, her father’s final riddle—into the bunker’s keypad. The steel door hissed, unlocking with a heavy thud, revealing a small chamber lit by a single flickering bulb. Inside, a vault loomed, its surface etched with the Whitmore crest. The key to locker 47 still burned in her ...