THE LIE SPOKEN THROUGH THE SPEAKER

Vincent’s blood ran cold.

He dropped the velvet box. He didn’t hang up the phone. He turned and sprinted toward the private elevator.

I ran right behind him, the adrenaline overriding the throbbing pain in my splinted wrist.

Vincent slammed his hand onto the call button.

Nothing happened. The digital floor indicator above the doors remained completely blank.

“He cut the power to the car,” Vincent growled, his voice vibrating with barely contained panic. He looked around wildly, his eyes landing on the heavy steel fire door labeled STAIRWELL.

We were on the ground floor. The penthouse was on the 42nd.

“Vincent, you can’t run up forty-two flights in time!” I yelled.

“Watch me,” he snapped, throwing the fire door open.

He took the stairs three at a time. I followed, my lungs burning by the fifth floor, but I refused to stop. I pictured Mia’s terrified blue eyes. I pictured Frank, the kind old man who had stayed late to fix my car, facing down trained assassins.

By the twentieth floor, my legs felt like lead.

By the thirtieth, Vincent was sweating through his shirt, his breathing ragged, but he didn’t slow down. He was a man possessed, driven by the desperate need to protect the family he had just claimed.

Forty.

Forty-one.

Forty-two.

Vincent kicked the heavy fire door open on the penthouse level.

The hallway was eerily quiet. The thick, imported carpets absorbed the sound of our desperate gasps for air.

Vincent drew his 9mm, holding it steady despite his exhaustion. He approached the massive double doors of his own penthouse.

They were slightly ajar.

He pushed them open with the barrel of his gun.

The living room was completely destroyed.

The glass coffee table was shattered. The velvet sofa was overturned. A lamp lay broken on the floor, sparking sporadically.

But the room was empty.

“Frank!” Vincent yelled, sweeping the room with his weapon. “Evan!”

Silence.

I stepped into the room, my heart breaking. We were too late. Miles’s men had taken them.

“Check the bedrooms,” Vincent ordered, moving toward the hallway.

Suddenly, a loud, heavy THUD echoed from the kitchen.

Vincent spun around, aiming his gun toward the swinging doors.

The doors slowly pushed open.

Frank stumbled out.

His face was badly bruised, his uniform torn, and he was clutching his ribs. But in his right hand, he held a heavy cast-iron skillet dripping with blood.

“Frank!” I cried, rushing over to help him stay upright.

“I’m alright, miss,” Frank wheezed, leaning heavily against the counter.

Vincent rushed forward. “Where are the kids? Did they take them?”

Frank managed a bloody, painful grin.

“No, sir,” the old driver said. “They tried. Two of them came up the service elevator.”

Frank pointed back toward the kitchen with the bloody skillet.

“I guess they didn’t expect the old man to know his way around the cookware.”

Vincent stepped past Frank into the kitchen.

Lying unconscious on the pristine white tile were two heavily armed mercenaries. One had a massive lump forming on his forehead; the other looked like he had been tackled into the stainless steel refrigerator.

“Where are Evan and Mia?” Vincent asked urgently.

“Panic room, sir,” Frank coughed. “Behind the pantry. I shoved them inside the moment the front door was breached. Only you have the biometric code to open it.”

Vincent let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a decade. He walked over to Frank and gripped his shoulder tightly.

“You’re family, Frank. For the rest of your life.”

Frank nodded gratefully.

Vincent walked over to the hidden panel behind the pantry, pressing his thumb against the scanner. The heavy steel door slid open.

Evan was crouched inside, holding a fire extinguisher like a weapon, shielding Mia.

When they saw Vincent, Evan dropped the extinguisher, burying his face in his hands in relief.

“It’s okay,” Vincent said gently, pulling the boy into a hug. “You’re safe.”

He turned back to the living room. The immediate threat was neutralized, but the war wasn’t over.

Miles was still across the street. And Antonio Marino was still pulling the strings from the shadows.

Vincent’s phone, which was still in his hand, vibrated.

Miles hadn’t hung up.

Vincent brought the phone to his ear. “Your men are bleeding on my kitchen floor, Miles. Send someone better next time.”

“Impressive,” Miles said, not sounding defeated at all. “Frank always was tougher than he looked. But you’re missing the bigger picture, boss.”

“What picture?”

“Look out the window.”

Vincent walked slowly to the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood beside him, looking down at the street forty-two stories below.

Miles was still standing under the streetlight.

But now, three black tactical vans had pulled up around him. Dozens of men in dark clothing were pouring out, carrying heavy assault rifles. They were surrounding the building lobby.

“You’re trapped in the penthouse, Vincent,” Miles said through the phone. “My men are securing the lobby. They’re cutting the landlines. They have cell jammers turning on in thirty seconds. You can’t call the police.”

“I have the high ground,” Vincent said coldly. “There’s only one stairwell up here. It’s a choke point. I’ll kill every man you send up.”

“I know,” Miles chuckled. “That’s why we aren’t coming up.”

Miles looked up at the penthouse, locking eyes with Vincent across the incredible distance.

“We’re going to the basement, Vincent. Where the main gas lines feed the building.”

My blood ran completely cold.

“Your father doesn't want you captured,” Miles said, his voice turning deadly serious. “He wants you erased. The blast will take down the top thirty floors. Have a good night, boss.”

The line went dead.

Vincent stared at the phone. The cell service indicator in the top corner vanished. No signal. The jammers were active.

We were trapped forty-two stories in the air, with a bomb being built beneath our feet.

“Vincent,” I whispered, terrified.

Vincent didn’t panic. He looked at the shattered window, then looked at me.

“Jessie,” Vincent said, his voice remarkably calm. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

Vincent turned to Frank. “Frank, get the kids. We aren’t taking the stairs down.”

Frank looked confused. “Sir, there is no other way out.”

Vincent walked over to the destroyed coffee table and picked up a heavy, brass decorative statue. He walked to the massive glass window.

“Yes, there is,” Vincent said.

He swung the statue, entirely shattering the remaining glass.

The freezing night wind howled into the penthouse.

Vincent pointed out into the dark sky, toward the adjacent skyscraper, a high-end corporate office building that sat just fifty feet across the alleyway.