Chapter 8 - BLACKOUT“Get down!” Grant shouted, instantly scooping Ethan into his arms and diving behind the heavy mahogany filing cabinets.
I scrambled across the floor, drawing the small legal-carry pistol Grant had insisted I keep in my desk drawer ever since the diner incident. My hand trembled slightly, but the muscle memory from the self-defense classes Grant had forced me to take kicked in.
“Is it the feds?” I called out over the low hum of the dying emergency generators.
“No,” Grant said, his eyes scanning the corridor outside the glass office doors. “Federal protocol doesn't include cutting the building’s main power grid and disabling the biometric locks. Someone is locking us inside.”
Heavy footsteps echoed down the polished marble hallway. Not the stealthy, tactical steps of professional assassins, but the heavy, deliberate march of men who owned the building and knew no one could stop them.
Click.
The magnetic seal on my office door disengaged with a sharp pop.
The door swung slowly open.
Standing in the doorway was Chief Victor Vance. But he wasn't wearing his police uniform anymore. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, and in his right hand, he held a silenced Sig Sauer pistol. Behind him stood four armed men bearing the insignia of Harbor City’s elite municipal security force—men who answered directly to the police commissioner, not the mayor.
“Grant, Grant, Grant,” Victor sighed, stepping into the dim red glow of the office with a disappointed shake of his head. “You really thought you and a ragtag team of grieving relatives could dismantle thirty years of institutional power just by handing a flash drive to a rookie prosecutor?”
Grant stood up slowly from behind the filing cabinet, shielding Ethan with his entire body. His voice was laced with venom. “You played both sides, Victor. You let Daniel take the fall so you could inherit the entire municipal infrastructure.”
“Daniel was a blunt instrument,” Victor smiled coldly, raising his weapon. “Useful for wet work, terrible at macro-economics. My father built this city on blood and backroom deals, Grant. Do you honestly think a couple of signed apologies and a philanthropic foundation were going to wash away the sins of the foundation?”
Victor’s eyes shifted past Grant, landing squarely on me.
“And you... Maya’s little sister. You have a terrible habit of looking into things that don’t concern you.”
My finger tightened on the trigger of my pistol hidden behind the desk. Move, just a fraction of an inch, and I can take the shot.
Suddenly, Ethan—who had remained silent behind his father—tucked his head against Grant’s chest and reached out.
His little fingers began to move frantically in the air, casting shadows against the red emergency lights. He wasn't signing to me or his father. He was staring directly at the ceiling vent right above Victor’s head.
LOUD. VIBRATION. FALL.
May you like
Victor frowned, glancing up at the ceiling vent. “What is the deaf brat babbling about now?”
Before Victor could raise his gun, the floor beneath his feet shuddered violently.
