Chapter 9 - The Final ShowdownRachel didn't run to the elevator.
Instead, she popped open her evening clutch—which didn't contain lipstick or a compact, but a sterile surgical kit she had smuggled inside her dress—and crept along the shadows of the ballroom toward the terrace where Vance was making his escape.
She found him dragging the federal prosecutor toward the service exit at gunpoint.
"Move, you useless bureaucrat, or I'll put a hole in your spine right now!" Vance snarled.
"Let him go, Vance," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the doorway.
Vance spun around, his gun raised. Dominic stood in the center of the terrace doors, his tuxedo jacket ruined, blood staining his left shoulder, but his Beretta locked dead onto Vance's chest.
"Vale!" Vance laughed hysterically, pressing his pistol against the prosecutor's temple. "Drop the gun, Dominic! One twitch and your precious federal witness gets his brains splattered across the pavement!"
Dominic’s finger tightened on the trigger. His gray eyes were devoid of mercy. "Do it, Vance. See what happens to your escape route once my men outside hear that shot."
Vance hesitated, his eyes darting toward the perimeter gates where the sound of police sirens was beginning to wail in the distance.
In that split second of hesitation, Rachel moved.
She stepped out from behind a concrete planter, grabbed a heavy silver champagne bucket off a nearby cart, and hurled it with terrifying precision straight at Vance’s knees.
Clang!
Vance screamed as his kneecap buckled under the heavy metal, his balance failing him as he collapsed forward.
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Dominic didn't hesitate. A single, clean shot cracked through the night air, striking Vance’s weapon hand and sending his pistol clattering across the concrete.
Grant and three security guards swarmed the terrace a second later, pinning Vance to the ground and slapping heavy steel cuffs around his wrists.
