Chapter 7 - The East Terrace Trap
The freight elevator groaned to a halt at the roof access level. The doors slid open with a metallic screech that made Claire wince, expecting a hail of bullets. But the rooftop was empty, swept by a bitter autumn wind that whipped Victoria’s torn dress around her legs.
Below them, the city of Manhattan glittered, ignorant of the war raging inside the Vale Hotel.
Adrian moved to the edge of the roof, peering over the parapet. “The security control room is on the second floor, overlooking the East Terrace,” he muttered, mapping the geometry of the building in his head. “The terrace has glass skylights. If we rappel down to the terrace, we can breach the control room through the floor-to-ceiling windows.”
“Rappel with what?” Michael asked. “We don’t have gear.”
Claire looked around the cluttered rooftop. Her eyes landed on the window washer’s rigging—a heavy motorized cradle suspended by industrial steel cables.
“We don’t need to rappel,” Claire said, pointing. “We take the cradle. I know the override code for the motor. The maintenance crew uses it every morning.”
Adrian actually smiled. “Sommelier, historian, and now mechanic. Let’s move.”
They climbed into the narrow metal basket. It swayed violently under their combined weight. Claire punched a four-digit code into the control box. The motor hummed to life, and the cradle lurched over the edge of the building, beginning its agonizingly slow descent down the glass facade.
The wind howled. Victoria clung to the railing, her eyes squeezed shut. Claire focused on the numbers ticking away on the floor indicator. Ten. Nine. Eight.
If Reynolds had men looking out the windows, they were dead. But the tinted glass of the hotel worked in their favor, reflecting the city lights and hiding the dark cradle descending in the shadows.
Three. Two.
“Stop it here,” Adrian whispered.
Claire hit the brake. They were hovering just above the East Terrace, a massive outdoor balcony adorned with stone planters and statues. Directly across the terrace was the glass-walled security control room. Inside, bathed in the blue glow of two dozen monitor screens, stood Reynolds and three heavily armed men.
They were frantically coordinating the search of the lower levels, completely unaware that the ghost they were hunting was hovering just outside their window.
“The glass is bulletproof,” Michael noted, examining the thick panes. “We can’t just shoot our way in.”
“No,” Adrian agreed. “But it isn't shatter-proof against high-velocity, localized impact.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object. It was the diamond ring Victoria had been wearing. He had slipped it off her finger in the cellar.
“A diamond can score bulletproof glass,” Adrian said, turning to his brother. “I’ll score the center of the pane. You put three suppressed rounds into the exact same spot. The structural integrity will fail.”
Adrian climbed quietly out of the cradle, dropping onto the stone terrace. Michael followed. Claire and Victoria stayed in the basket, watching breathlessly.
Adrian crept across the terrace, melting into the shadows. He reached the glass wall of the control room. Inside, Reynolds was shouting into a radio, his back turned.
With agonizing precision, Adrian pressed the sharp edge of the massive diamond against the glass and dragged it in a tight circle, scoring the surface. He stepped back and nodded to Michael.
Michael raised his pistol. Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three bullets struck the exact center of the scored circle. The bulletproof glass spider-webbed violently.
Adrian didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, driving his heavy leather shoe into the weakened center. The entire pane shattered inward with a deafening crash, raining millions of glass cubes into the control room.
Before the guards could even raise their weapons, Michael and Adrian were inside. The confined space became a whirlwind of brutal, close-quarters violence. Michael shot two guards center-mass. Adrian disarmed the third, snapping his wrist and throwing him into the bank of monitors, sending sparks flying.
Reynolds drew his weapon, but Adrian was faster. He kicked the gun out of the traitor’s hand, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him down onto the main console desk, pinning him among the shattered keyboards.
The room fell silent, save for the hum of the servers and the ragged breathing of the men.
Claire brought the cradle down the last few feet and stepped into the ruined room with Victoria.
May you like
Adrian leaned over Reynolds, his face inches from his former captain.
“Call them off, Marcus,” Adrian whispered, pressing the barrel of a gun against Reynolds' temple. “Or the Morettis will have to scrape you off this desk.”
