Chapter 5 - High-Rise Havoc
The elevator shuddered, dropping a terrifying five feet before the emergency brakes caught with a violent, metal-shrieking halt.
"They cut the mains," my father said, his voice entirely level in the pitch black.
He clicked on a tactical red flashlight. He didn't waste time. He stood on the handrail, popped open the ceiling hatch of the elevator cab, and hauled himself up onto the top of the car. He reached down and pulled me up, then helped my mother.
We stood in the drafty, echoing elevator shaft, suspended forty stories in the air.
"The penthouse is five floors up," my father said, pointing to a maintenance ladder bolted to the concrete wall of the shaft.
We climbed. Every step was a test of willpower. My hands were slick with sweat, my knees trembling as I looked down into the seemingly bottomless abyss below us. But every time I felt like giving up, I remembered the three years of hell Robert had put me through. I remembered the slaps, the insults, the way he made me feel like I was nothing.
No more, I told myself. Never again.
We reached the 45th-floor maintenance door. My father used a small, specialized tool to pop the lock, and we slipped into the plush, carpeted hallways of the executive suite.
It was dead quiet.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the PA system.
"Frank! I knew a simple elevator drop wouldn't kill you," Richard Vance’s voice sneered. "But you're too late. I’ve already sent my men to clean up the messy details. Sarah is on the balcony. One push, and she takes a very long walk."
My father didn't run. Running makes noise. He glided down the hallway like a predatory cat, checking every corner.
We reached the double doors of the penthouse.
Inside, my aunt Sarah was tied to a chair near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, which had been slid open to the cold night air. Standing over her was Robert. He had a heavy cast on his leg, supporting himself with a crutch, but in his hand, he held a pistol pointed at Sarah’s head.
Beside him stood his father, Richard Vance—a sleek, silver-haired man in a bespoke suit, looking utterly ruthless.
"Stop right there, old man!" Robert screamed, his voice cracking with fear and rage when he saw my father enter. "Look at what you did to my leg! I'll kill her! I swear to God, I'll blow her brains out!"
My father stepped into the room. He didn't raise his weapon. He simply stood there, his hands loose at his sides.
"Robert," my father said softly. "You're shaking."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Robert yelled, his grip on the gun trembling violently.
"You see, Robert, a real man doesn't need a gun to make people fear him," my father said, taking a slow step forward. "A real man doesn't have to beat his wife to feel powerful. You are a weak boy hiding behind your father's money."
"Stay back!" Robert shrieked, aiming the gun directly at my father's chest.
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HOOK FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER: The gunshot echoes through the penthouse. But it wasn't Robert who fired. A figure stands in the doorway behind Richard Vance, a smoking gun in hand. The ultimate betrayal is about to unfold.
