Chapter 5 - The Glass Wall
The room hung in a razor-sharp balance of terror.
Leo didn't raise his pistol. Doing so would trigger the gunman’s reflexes, and the thumb resting on that red detonator button would contract in a fraction of a second. An eight-thousand-degree thermite explosion would vaporize the oxygen in the room within three seconds, melting the floor structural beams and plunging us forty-two stories down onto Park Avenue.
"Put the controller down, son," Leo said, his voice flat, steady, and devoid of any panic. "You aren't paid enough to die for Arthur Voss."
"Shut up!" the gunman shrieked, his eyes darting frantically between Leo, the unconscious Sterling, and me. "Arthur’s lawyers promised us five hundred thousand each if we cleared the tower! I'm not going to federal prison!"
"Arthur’s lawyers are currently being rounded up by the FBI at their homes in Westchester," I said, stepping deliberately in front of Sophia, blocking her from his line of sight. "By six o'clock this morning, the Voss asset forfeiture order will be executed. There is no money left to pay you. There is no escape plan."
"You're lying!" he yelled, his knuckle tightening on the trigger of the submachine gun.
"Look out the window," I commanded, pointing a black-gloved finger toward the massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind him.
Through the rain-streaked glass, three hundred feet below, Park Avenue was a sea of flashing red and blue lights. More than thirty law enforcement vehicles—FBI, state police, and NYPD emergency service units—had formed a total blockade around the base of the tower.
High above us, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy helicopter blades vibrated through the structure. Two tactical surveillance choppers were hovering fifty yards off the glass wall, their high-intensity searchlights painting the library in blinding white light.
The gunman flinched, turning his head for a single, panicked second toward the searchlight beam.
That microsecond was all Leo needed.
He didn't fire his weapon. He stepped forward, grabbed the barrel of the submachine gun, and twisted it downward with terrifying force.
A single, suppressed burst of gunfire tore into the floorboards—thwip-thwip-thwip—splintering the oak and shredding the Persian rug.
Leo’s free hand swept up, his fingers driving straight into the gunman’s throat, crushing his windpipe. The man dropped the detonator as he fell back against the glass wall, clutching his throat, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slid down to the floor unconscious.
Sophia dropped to her knees, scooped up the black leather shadow book and the memory cards, and shoved them securely into her backpack.
"Mom," she gasped, looking up at me, her chest heaving. "The detonator..."
I stepped over the unconscious gunman, picked up the tiny red remote, and thumbed the safety switch into the OFF position. I tossed it onto the desk beside the useless briefcase.
"Leo," I said, looking out at the hovering tactical chopper. "Call Thorne. Tell him the forty-second floor is secure. And tell him to bring the paddy wagon for the rest of Arthur’s garbage."
Ten minutes later, Special Agent Gabriel Thorne stepped out of the service elevator, accompanied by six armed federal agents.
He looked around the room—at the unconscious Sterling, the disarmed thermite trap, and the opened secret safe. Then he looked at Sophia, who was standing beside me with her backpack slung over one shoulder.
"You took a massive risk coming up here, Mrs. Vance," Thorne said, taking off his gloves and looking at me with a mix of anger and deep professional respect.
"My name is Rose," I said calmly. "And I just delivered your entire prosecution case on a silver platter."
Thorne looked at the black backpack in Sophia’s hands. "Is that Arthur’s shadow book?"
"It is," Sophia said, stepping forward and handing the backpack directly to the lead federal agent. "It contains every bank account, every bribe, every land deal, and every video recording Julian and his father used to blackmail people in this state for twenty years."
Thorne took the bag, unzipped it, and checked the leather ledger inside. A long, slow breath escaped his lips.
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"This isn't just a prosecution case," Thorne whispered, looking up at us. "This is going to bring down half the state legislature."
"Good," I said, turning toward the elevator. "Make sure Julian gets a front-row seat to the collapse."
