Chapter 8 - Cornered Rat
Roman picked up the receiver with a smooth, deadly snap. "Speak."
Marcus's voice was frantic on the other end, loud enough for Claire to hear through the receiver. "Sir! We have a breach at the Cook County central holding facility! Grant Bennett posted bail!"
Roman’s eyes turned into shards of ice. "Bail was denied by the magistrate."
"Judge Miller was replaced thirty minutes ago due to a sudden 'medical emergency,'" Marcus reported rapidly. "A substitute night judge, Judge Wallace—who turns out to have significant offshore real estate holdings tied to Bennett's former shell companies—approved an emergency cash bond of five million dollars. It was paid in bearer bonds by an unknown third party. Bennett was released through the rear sally port ten minutes ago."
"Find him," Roman ordered, his voice dropping into a register of pure murder. "Lock down the city. Ground every private charter at O'Hare and Midway. Pull traffic opticals on every vehicle leaving the 26th Street corridor."
"He didn't head for the airports, Mr. Vance," Marcus said, his voice dropping in dread. "One of our street units just spotted a stolen municipal utility van blowing through a checkpoint near the Vance Tower perimeter. He's coming for her."
Roman slammed the receiver down.
"Grant is out?" Claire asked, standing up, her heart leaping into her throat.
"Stay here," Roman said, already moving toward the concealed gun safe behind the bookshelf. He pulled out a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, checking the chamber with practiced, lethal efficiency. "The penthouse has reinforced ballistic glass and biometric locks. My men control the elevator bank. He cannot reach this floor."
*BOOM.*
The entire tower shuddered.
The lights in the library flickered violently before plunging into total darkness. An instant later, the emergency red backup lighting snapped on, bathing the room in a bloody, surreal glow.
The fire alarm began to wail, a deafening screech that reverberated through the ventilation shafts.
"What was that?" Claire yelled over the alarm.
"Sub-basement explosion," Roman said, his radio already crackling.
Marcus's voice cut through the static: *"Sir! He rammed an explosive-laden utility truck into the primary power junction in the parking garage! The fire suppression system has triggered an automatic override on the lower security gates! He’s in the service elevator shafts!"*
"Elena!" Claire gasped. "Elena is down in the medical research lab on the fourth floor!"
Roman cursed, a dark, vicious sound. He grabbed a second radio from the desk and pressed it into Claire’s hand.
"Listen to me," Roman said, grabbing her by the shoulders. His eyes were wide with a fierce, protective terror she had never seen on him before. "You go into the panic room behind the wine cellar. You lock the steel vault door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except my voice. Do you understand me?"
"Roman, don't go down there alone!"
"He wants you, Claire," Roman said, his voice hard as iron. "And the only way he gets to you is over my dead body."
Before she could argue, he turned and sprinted out the double doors, disappearing down the red-lit hallway toward the private stairwell.
Claire stood in the blinking emergency light, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
*Hide in the bunker,* her instincts screamed. *Lock the door. Be the victim. Let the men fight.*
Then she stopped.
She looked down at the drafting table where her blueprints lay. She looked at her hands—hands that were no longer bruised, no longer trembling.
*Hostages do whatever is necessary to survive the bunker,* Roman had told her. *But you are standing in the sunlight.*
She wasn't going to hide in a hole like a frightened dog while Roman Vance bled for her.
May you like
Claire spun around, grabbed the heavy bronze drafting compass from the table—its steel point sharp as a surgical scalpel—and sprinted toward the freight elevator corridor.
***
