Chapter 12 - The Vault of Zurich
Z
Alexander Montgomery did not wait for the federal agents to reach the top of the stairs.
With a speed that belied his age, he shoved the heavy mahogany table forward, catching my chair and knocking me backward against the velvet banquet seating. His silver cane swung through the air, shattering the champagne bucket on the adjacent service station with an explosive spray of ice and crystal.
“Claire!” Reed’s shout cut through the ballroom music as he drew his service weapon and sprinted up the mezzanine stairs.
The ballroom erupted into sheer pandemonium. Five hundred high-society guests in evening gowns and tuxedos shrieked in terror, surging toward the main revolving doors in a frantic human wave.
Alexander didn't head for the main exit. He darted through the private service door behind the mezzanine, vanishing into the maze of the Grand Hyatt’s industrial kitchens.
“Stay with Rachel!” Reed barked at his federal counterpart as he pushed through the kitchen swinging doors, with me following right behind him.
“Claire, stay back!” Reed ordered, but I ignored him. The adrenaline was roaring through my veins, my surgical scar completely forgotten. Alexander Montgomery had spent two decades manipulating my family, using Ethan like a puppet, and sending a hit team to my office window. I was not going to watch him slip away into the shadows.
The industrial kitchen was a battleground of stainless steel counters, boiling soup kettles, and terrified culinary staff cowering beneath the prep stations.
At the far end of the kitchen, Alexander was dragging an industrial linen cart to block the rear freight elevator door. When he saw Reed and me approaching, he pulled a compact, matte-black automatic pistol from inside his tailored tuxedo jacket.
“Get down!” Reed yelled, tackling me behind a massive stainless-steel prep table just as two 9mm rounds punched through the metal surface with deafening clangs.
Steam hissed violently from a punctured soup line overhead, filling the narrow corridor with a blinding, boiling fog.
“He’s heading for the underground delivery docks on 41st Street!” I shouted through the deafening hiss of the steam. “The docks connect directly to the Grand Central terminal maintenance tunnels!”
Reed fired two suppressive shots over the metal counter, forcing Alexander to duck into the freight elevator. The heavy industrial steel gate rattled shut, and the motor groaned as the lift descended toward the sub-basement levels.
“We take the service stairs!” Reed said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the concrete fire stairwell.
We flew down three flights of raw concrete stairs, the sound of our rapid footsteps echoing against the damp walls. When we burst through the basement door into the subterranean delivery dock, the humid, ozone-tinged air of the train tracks hit us like a wall.
The subterranean level was vast and dimly lit, filled with parked delivery trucks, garbage compactors, and the echoing rumble of subway trains running on the lower tracks beneath Manhattan.
At the far end of the platform, Alexander Montgomery was desperately trying to hotwire a security access door leading directly onto the commuter rail tracks. His gun lay on a concrete barrier beside him; his hands were bloody from tearing away the electrical wiring harness.
“Montgomery! Step away from the door and put your hands on your head!” Reed shouted, advancing with his Glock held in a two-handed combat stance.
Alexander turned slowly. The aristocratic billionaire was gone; in his place stood a desperate, aging fugitive whose twenty-year deception had finally collapsed into the subterranean dirt of New York City.
He looked past Reed, fixing his bloodshot eyes on me.
“You think putting me in prison saves your father’s legacy, Claire?” Alexander wheezed, his chest heaving with exertion. “Your father was no saint! He knew where the money came from! We built that empire together on the blood of five hundred subcontractors who never saw a dime!”
“My father spent the last ten years of his life trying to undo your damage,” I said, stepping past Reed until I stood ten feet from him on the damp platform. “He left the air rights to me because he knew I would use them to pay back every single person you and Ethan robbed.”
Alexander’s face twisted into an ugly, feral snarl. He lunged toward his pistol on the concrete barrier.
BANG.
Reed fired a single, perfectly placed shot.
The bullet struck the concrete directly between Alexander’s shoes, sending a shower of sparks and pulverized rock into his shins. Alexander stumbled backward, losing his balance, and collapsed heavily onto the platform floor.
Reed was on him in a second, pinning Montgomery’s shoulder to the concrete with his knee, wrenching his arms behind his back, and snapping the heavy steel cuffs around his wrists with brutal efficiency.
“Alexander Montgomery,” Reed recited calmly as four tactical FBI agents burst through the service doors behind us, their heavy flashlights illuminating the basement. “You are under arrest for federal securities fraud, wire fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, and interstate racketeering.”
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Alexander didn't fight back. He lay with his face pressed against the cold, grimy concrete, staring at my patent-leather shoes with unadulterated venom.
“It’s over, Alexander,” I said quietly, looking down at him. “The ledger is balanced.”
