She fought him with tooth and nail. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this unexpected means of escape. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. Wood. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately.
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