Chapter 7 - THE HEIRLOOM
The standoff was frozen in time. Four laser sights on Grant’s chest. Julian’s gun aimed directly at my forehead.
"You think Elias is going to let you run his empire, Julian?" Grant asked, his voice echoing in the massive penthouse. "He used my father. He used Emma's mother. He uses everyone. The second you pull that trigger, you become a liability to him."
"Elias and I have a perfect understanding," Julian smiled, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Goodbye, Emma."
I didn't freeze. My eyes darted to the large, modern art installation directly above Julian’s head—a massive chandelier made of heavy, jagged blown glass.
I didn't raise my gun to shoot Julian. I raised it and fired a single round directly into the structural cable holding the chandelier.
The cable snapped with a sound like a whip crack.
The massive glass fixture plummeted.
Julian screamed, diving out of the way as thousands of pounds of glass and steel shattered against the marble floor, sending razor-sharp shrapnel flying in every direction. Two of his guards were knocked backward by the concussive force of the impact.
"Move!" Grant roared, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind a heavy marble pillar as the remaining guards opened fire.
Bullets chewed through the drywall and shattered the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting the howling wind and rain from the storm whip into the penthouse.
Grant returned fire with terrifying precision, dropping one guard, then a second. The tactical training he had paid a fortune for was flawless, but he was outnumbered.
A bullet clipped Grant’s shoulder. He grunted, stumbling back against the pillar, his gun hand dropping for a critical second.
"Grant!" I yelled, dropping to my knees beside him. Blood was already soaking through the expensive wool of his suit.
"I'm fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, gripping his shoulder. "We need to move toward the executive office suite. Elias is back there."
I grabbed Grant’s heavy arm, draping it over my shoulder. We moved in a desperate, limping run down the long, shadowed hallway, using the chaos of the shattered chandelier to mask our escape.
We burst through a set of heavy mahogany doors and slammed them shut, locking the deadbolt.
We were in Elias Ward’s private office. It was expansive, lined with bookshelves and an antique desk. But it was completely empty. Elias wasn't there.
I eased Grant into a leather armchair. I ripped the sleeve of his shirt open, examining the wound. It was a clean through-and-through, but he was losing blood fast.
"I need to stop the bleeding," I said, my hands flying automatically, ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of my ruined shirt to create a makeshift tourniquet, just like I had done in the field.
Grant watched me work, his breathing shallow but steady.
"Your father," Grant rasped, his eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, intense vulnerability. "He didn't die of a heart attack, Emma. He found out what Elias was making your mother do. He tried to go to the police to protect her. Elias had him killed."
My hands stopped pulling the bandage. The room spun slightly.
"My father knew," Grant continued, his voice heavy with the sins of the past. "My father knew Elias killed your parents. He felt guilty. That’s why your mother’s life insurance policy was mysteriously doubled right before she died. My father paid for it through a shell company. He tried to protect you from afar, Emma. He failed. And I promised myself I wouldn't fail you again."
I stared at the man I had believed was a monster just three hours ago. He was bleeding, exhausted, and carrying the weight of a corrupted legacy he had spent his life trying to fix.
Before I could speak, Grant’s cell phone rang.
It wasn't a standard ringtone. It was a soft, chiming melody. A lullaby.
Grant’s eyes widened. He fumbled with his good hand, pulling the phone from his pocket. The screen flashed: Daniel Pierce.
Grant answered, putting it on speaker, his hand shaking.
"Daniel," Grant growled. "If you hurt her—"
"Daddy?"
The small, terrified voice of a little girl echoed through the quiet office.
Grant choked back a sob. "Chloe. Sweetheart, I'm here. Daddy's here. Are you okay?"
"I'm scared, Daddy," Chloe whispered, her voice trembling. "It's really cold. And it smells like dead fish."
My mind raced. Cold. Fish.
"Chloe, honey, look around," I said, leaning close to the phone. "Can you see anything? Are there boxes?"
"Yes," the little girl sniffled. "Big metal walls. The man who brought me here is yelling at another man on the phone. The man here has a shiny bracelet on his wrist. It looks like a snake."
A snake bracelet.
Julian Mercer wore a custom, platinum snake-link bracelet. I had seen it a dozen times when serving his table.
"Chloe, stay low and hide," Grant pleaded. "We are coming to get you."
The line went dead.
Grant looked at me in absolute despair. "Where is she?"
"She's not in a warehouse," I said, standing up, the adrenaline overriding my fear. "Cold. Smells like fish. Metal walls. Julian isn't keeping her in the city. He’s putting her on a refrigerated freighter."
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"Navy Pier," Grant realized, forcing himself to stand.
"Julian didn't bring her to the penthouse," I said, picking up my gun. "He brought us here to die while he escapes with the ultimate leverage against you. He's selling your entire logistics network overseas, and he's taking your daughter to ensure you never stop him."
