Chapter 7 - THE SHATTERED GLASS
The reinforced glass exploded outward with a deafening crash, showering the outdoor patio in a million sparkling shards.
The sudden noise and rush of freezing wind stunned the two gunmen for a fraction of a second. That was all I needed.
I dove over the table, tackling David to the floor. The folder of fake deeds scattered like confetti. I drove my fist into his jaw. His head snapped back against the hardwood with a sickening thud, and he went limp.
“Hey!” one of the gunmen shouted, recovering from the shock.
He raised his weapon, but I was already moving. I grabbed David’s heavy crystal bourbon decanter from the table and hurled it at the shooter’s face. It shattered against his nose, sending him crashing into a server station.
The second gunman fired.
The bullet tore through the sleeve of my jacket, grazing my bicep like a hot iron. I grunted in pain, stumbling backward toward the shattered window.
I didn't have time to fight. I threw myself out the broken window, tumbling onto the stone patio just as a second bullet pulverized the brick wall where my head had been.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching my bleeding arm, and sprinted down the embankment toward the riverwalk.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The sound of the shattered window had triggered the restaurant’s security alarms.
I didn't stop running until I reached the crowded pedestrian bridge a mile down the river. I blended into the weekend tourist crowd, gasping for breath, my boots tracking mud and my arm dripping blood onto the concrete.
I found a payphone outside a convenience store. My cell phone had fallen out during the fight. I dialed the secure number Eleanor had given me for her burner phone.
She picked up on the first ring.
“James! Are you okay? The news is reporting a break-in at Bellweather House!”
“I’m alive,” I panted, leaning against the cold brick wall. “Is Sophie safe?”
“She’s watching cartoons. We’re at the motel by the airport. James, what happened?”
“David has fake deeds, Ellie. He’s bluffing the buyers. The original founding documents, the ones that legally block any hostile takeover, are buried under the floorboards of Table Four. We put them in a time capsule when we built the place.”
Eleanor gasped. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. But David is going to lock down the restaurant now. He’ll have his men guarding it 24/7 until Monday morning.”
“Then how do we get the capsule out?”
I looked down at my muddy, steel-toed work boots. I wasn't a corporate executive. I was a builder. I knew how buildings worked.
“We don't go through the front door,” I said, a plan forming in my mind. “Ellie, I need you to call the Columbus Police. Ask for Detective Miller. Tell him Tom Harris sent you. Tell him to meet me at the storm drains beneath Bellweather House at midnight.”
“Storm drains? James, you can't be serious.”
“Just make the call, Ellie. And tell Sophie I love her.”
I hung up the phone.
I spent the rest of the day hiding in the basement of my construction company's tool shed. I bandaged my arm, changed into a pair of dark coveralls, and packed a heavy canvas duffel bag with a sledgehammer, a crowbar, and a concrete saw.
At 11:30 PM, the city was asleep.
I parked three blocks away from the restaurant and slipped down into the muddy embankment of the river.
Bellweather House sat on a slight bluff overlooking the water. When we built the restaurant, we had to install heavy drainage pipes that ran directly from the basement foundation out to the river to prevent flooding during heavy rains.
I waded into the freezing, knee-deep water and found the rusted iron grate covering the drainage pipe. It was barely wide enough for a man to fit through.
I used the crowbar to snap the rusted padlock and pulled the grate open.
I crawled into the darkness, the smell of damp earth and river water filling my lungs. I dragged the heavy tool bag behind me, inching my way up the pipe for nearly two hundred feet.
Finally, the pipe opened up into the dirt crawlspace directly beneath the restaurant's main dining room.
Above me, I could hear the heavy footsteps of David’s men patrolling the hardwood floors.
I pulled out a small flashlight and a set of original blueprints I had grabbed from my office. I measured the distance from the load-bearing pillar.
Ten feet north. Five feet west.
Directly under Table Four.
I looked up at the wooden subfloor. This was it.
I raised the crowbar, preparing to pry the floorboards loose.
May you like
But before the metal touched the wood, a cold steel barrel pressed hard against the back of my neck.
“Did you really think I wouldn't remember you built this place, James?” David’s voice whispered from the darkness behind me.
