THE LIE SPOKEN THROUGH THE SPEAKER

The darkness was absolute and immediate.

A suppressed gunshot coughed in the blackness—a sharp pfft sound. The glass of the sedan’s window directly next to my ear shattered, showering my shoulder with tiny, biting fragments.

“Get down!” Vincent roared.

A heavy hand grabbed the collar of my catering shirt and yanked me violently downward. My knees slammed into the hard concrete just as a second bullet sparked against the brick wall where I had been standing a second before.

I couldn’t see my own hands. The smell of cordite mixed with the sharp scent of spilled brake fluid.

“Spread out!” Vincent hissed to Frank in the dark.

I heard the scuffle of Frank’s shoes retreating toward the rear of the garage, behind the line of parked vintage cars.

“You’re just delaying the inevitable, Vincent,” Miles called out. His voice was eerily calm, echoing off the high ceilings, making it impossible to pinpoint his exact location. “I locked the reinforced fire doors from the security mainframe. You’re trapped in a concrete box.”

I was kneeling next to the front tire of the damaged sedan. My left hand was practically useless, swollen and throbbing. I pressed my good right hand flat against the floor to steady myself.

My fingers brushed against something cold and wet.

The puddle of brake fluid.

Suddenly, a warm, solid weight pressed against my back. It was Vincent. He had crouched directly behind me, shielding my body with his own. His breath was steady against my neck.

“Are you hit, Jessie?” he whispered, his lips practically touching my ear.

“No,” I breathed, trembling uncontrollably.

“Good. Do exactly what I tell you.”

He reached blindly in the dark, his hands finding mine. He pressed a small, heavy metal cylinder into my right hand.

I recognized the shape immediately. It was his silver Zippo lighter. I had seen him playing with it at the dinner table earlier.

“When I say go,” Vincent whispered, “flick the wheel. Drop it in the fluid. And run for the vintage Mustang three spots down.”

“What are you going to do?” I whispered back.

“I’m going to end his retirement plan.”

Somewhere in the dark, Miles chuckled. “I can hear you whispering, boss. You always were too protective of the help. It makes you weak.”

A third shot rang out. It hit the hood of the sedan, inches from Vincent’s shoulder. Miles was walking closer.

“Go,” Vincent commanded.

I didn’t hesitate. I flicked the flint wheel of the Zippo with my right thumb.

A bright yellow flame erupted, illuminating my terrified face and Vincent’s grim, hardened features.

I dropped the lighter directly into the puddle of brake fluid and oil.

The chemicals ignited instantly. A wall of blue and orange fire roared upward, creating a brilliant, blinding barricade of light between us and Miles.

Miles shouted in surprise, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the sudden glare.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, scrambling past the burning puddle and throwing myself behind the heavy steel chassis of a 1968 Mustang.

Through the flames, I saw Vincent move.

He didn’t run away. He ran straight through the fire.

Miles fired blindly, but his night vision had been destroyed by the sudden ignition. The bullet went wide.

Before Miles could correct his aim, Vincent was on him.

Vincent tackled the head of security with the force of a freight train. They crashed hard into a rolling tool chest, sending hundreds of heavy steel wrenches clattering onto the concrete floor.

The gun skittered away into the darkness.

It was a brutal, ugly fight. Miles was highly trained, but Vincent was fighting for his life, and the lives of the people in the room.

I peaked around the tire of the Mustang, my heart pounding in my throat. The fire was spreading slowly toward the front tire of the wrecked sedan.

“Frank!” I yelled over the crackle of the flames.

“I’m here, miss!” Frank called out from the darkness near the back wall.

“The fire is hitting the tire!”

If the gas tank caught, the entire enclosed garage would become an oven.

Across the room, Vincent drove his knee into Miles’s ribs. Miles gasped, but managed to throw a vicious punch that caught Vincent square in the jaw. Vincent stumbled back.

Miles saw his opening. He scrambled on his hands and knees, desperately searching the floor for his dropped pistol.

His fingers brushed the steel barrel.

He picked it up and rolled onto his back, aiming directly at Vincent’s chest.

“Game over,” Miles spat, blood dripping from his nose.

CLANG.

Miles’s eyes rolled backward into his head. He collapsed limply onto the floor, the gun sliding from his limp fingers.

Standing directly behind him was Frank.

The older driver was breathing heavily, holding a massive, solid steel tire iron in both hands.

“You’re fired,” Frank said to the unconscious man.

Vincent wiped a line of blood from his lip. He looked at Frank, then let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Remind me to double your pension, Frank.”

Vincent scooped up the 9mm pistol and tucked it into his waistband.

He looked over at me. “Jessie, are you alright?”

I stood up slowly, leaning against the Mustang. “I’m okay. But the fire—”

Vincent looked at the burning sedan. He walked over to the wall, smashed the glass of an emergency fire box with his elbow, and pulled out a heavy extinguisher. He doused the flames in seconds, leaving the garage filled with thick, white chemical smoke.

“How do we get out?” Frank asked, dropping the tire iron. “He locked the mainframe.”

Vincent walked over to Miles’s unconscious body. He reached into the man’s tactical vest and pulled out a heavy black keycard.

“Security override,” Vincent said.

He swiped the card at the reinforced fire door. The heavy deadbolts clicked open.

We stepped out of the smoke-filled garage and back into the pristine, quiet hallway of the mansion. The contrast was jarring. My catering uniform was ruined, covered in soot, oil, and glass fragments.

“Frank, go to the gatehouse,” Vincent ordered. “Take this gun. Tie up the guards. They might be loyal to Miles. Open the main gates.”

“Yes, sir. Where are you going?”

Vincent looked down the hallway, toward the guest wing.

“To get Evan,” Vincent said. “If the Romanos paid Miles to kill me tonight, they won’t leave witnesses. The boy is in danger.”

I followed Vincent down the hall.

We reached the guest room where Miles had supposedly locked Evan away.

The door was wide open.

Vincent drew his weapon and stepped inside.

The room was empty. The window was open, rain blowing in, soaking the curtains.

But sitting in the center of the perfectly made bed was a single, stark object.

It wasn’t a note. It wasn’t a weapon.

It was a small, worn, child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper.