Chapter 8 - The Light in the Dark
The air in the basement archive was suffocatingly tense.
Sterling’s finger tightened on the trigger. His two henchmen stepped forward to block the exit.
I gripped the edge of the heavy oak table beside me, calculating my odds. If I lunged at Sterling, he might get a shot off, but it was the only chance Hannah had to run.
“On three,” I whispered to Hannah without moving my lips.
“Hand it over!” Sterling barked, raising his voice. “Now!”
CRASH!
Suddenly, the heavy industrial fire alarm on the wall detonated with a deafening, high-pitched screech. Red strobe lights began flashing wildly through the dark room, blinding everyone.
At the exact same moment, the overhead fire sprinkler system burst open, showering the archive in a torrential downpour of cold water.
Sterling flinched, instinctively turning his face away from the blinding red strobes and cascading water.
“NOW!” I roared.
I grabbed the heavy oak table, using all my strength to flip it on its side, slamming it directly into Sterling’s two henchmen. The heavy wood knocked them off balance, sending them crashing into a row of metal filing cabinets.
I lunged forward, tackling Sterling around the waist before he could level the gun. We slammed onto the wet concrete floor. The gun flew out of his hand, skidding across the slippery floor into the darkness.
Sterling fought like a trapped animal, throwing a wild punch that caught me across the jaw. Pain exploded in my head, but I didn't care. I pinned his shoulders to the floor, driving my forearm into his throat until his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
“Marcus!” Hannah screamed over the blaring alarm.
She was standing near the door, clutching the red leather ledger tightly against her wet coat.
“RUN!” I yelled, grabbing my flashlight off the floor and pulling her out into the hallway.
We sprinted through the blinding strobe lights, splashing through ankle-deep water, bursting through the basement stairs and pushing through the service entrance into the pouring rain outside.
Standing in the alleyway, surrounded by three flashing police cruisers and an ambulance, was Grace.
She was holding her doll in one hand, while an officer knelt beside her. When she saw us burst out of the building, her face lit up.
“Mommy! Mr. Vance!” she cried out.
It turned out that when Grace saw the two men in dark suits follow us into the building from the SUV window, she didn't panic. She had remembered rule number five on her Christmas list: Be extra good.
She had quietly unbuckled her seatbelt, walked across the street to a brightly lit diner, and told the manager to call the police because her mother and Santa’s friend were in danger.
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Within minutes, backup officers swarmed the building, pulling a battered, dripping wet Richard Sterling out in handcuffs. As the federal agents placed him in the back of a squad car, Sterling looked at me with defeated, hollow eyes.
The empire was gone.
