Chapter 7 - The Midnight Intruder
Z
The mercenary didn't have time to draw his weapon.
Driven by primal maternal instinct and the sheer adrenaline of survival, Sarah lunged from behind the velvet drapes. She drove the heavy brass letter opener with all her weight directly into the mercenary’s shoulder joint, right between the collarbone and the neck muscle.
The man let out a guttural howl of pain, dropping his gun onto the hardwood floor as blood sprayed across the ivory drapes.
Julian spun around, his eyes widening in shock as he recognized his wife. "Sarah?!"
He raised his suppressed pistol, but Sarah didn't hesitate. She grabbed the heavy crystal lamp from the nightstand and hurled it with vicious force straight at Julian’s face. The lamp shattered against his temple, sending his pistol flying across the room and knocking him violently into the glass coffee table, which splintered under his weight.
"You should have stayed in the dirt!" Julian snarled, wiping blood from his forehead as he scrambled on hands and knees toward his fallen gun.
Sarah didn't try to retrieve the weapon; she grabbed the Pelican case containing the hard drive and the ledger, sprinted through the master bedroom, and bolted down the penthouse hallway toward the emergency stairwell.
Behind her, Julian’s enraged roar echoed off the walls. "Kill her! Don't let her leave this building with that book!"
Sarah burst through the heavy fire doors and hurled herself down the concrete stairs, skipping three steps at a time. The sound of heavy, rapid footsteps pounded above her as the wounded mercenary gave chase, cursing through ragged breaths.
She reached the third-floor parking garage, kicked the exit door open, and sprinted into the dimly lit concrete expanse. Tires screeched across the wet pavement as Detective Miller’s sedan roared around the corner, slamming to a halt with the passenger door swinging open.
"Get in!" Miller screamed over the roar of the engine.
Sarah dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut just as three bullets shattered the rear windshield, raining tempered glass across the back seat. Miller threw the car into reverse, spun the steering wheel 180 degrees, and slammed the accelerator, rocketing out of the underground ramp and onto the rain-slicked Manhattan street.
Sarah sat back, gasping for air, her coat stained with blood, but her hands locked around the Pelican case like a vice.
"Are you hit?!" Miller shouted, checking his mirrors as he sped through a red light to lose any pursuit.
"I’m fine," Sarah panted, her voice shaking but victorious. "I have it. I have everything, Marcus. The contracts, the wire transfers, the proof that Victoria and Julian hired a syndicate hit squad."
Miller glanced at the open ledger on her lap and let out a low whistle. "This isn't just a state murder charge anymore. This is international racketeering, contract murder, and federal conspiracy. Pendelton can't buy his way out of this."
"He won't have the chance," Sarah said, pulling out her phone. "Call Prosecutor Harrison. Tell him to convene an emergency grand jury at 8 AM tomorrow. But before we hand this to the court, I have one more stop to make."
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"Where?" Miller asked, frowning.
"The county detention center," Sarah said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "My mother thinks she’s getting out on bail tomorrow morning. It’s time I paid her a final visit."
