Chapter 7 - The Trial of Public Opinion
“Stay down,” Julian ordered instantly, his voice razor-sharp in the dark.
A red emergency backup light clicked on overhead, bathing the metal interior in a dim, bloody glow. The elevator was stuck between the ground floor and the first basement level.
Julian pulled his radio from his belt. “Team two, this is Julian. We have a power failure in service elevator B. Report status.”
Static crackled through the speaker, followed by a frantic voice: “Julian! Main power to the medical wing was manually tripped from the sub-station breaker in the utility alley! We’ve got an intruder alarm on the stairwell—!”
The radio cut out.
Above us, on the roof of the elevator cab, there was a heavy, metallic *thud*.
My breath hitched in my throat. I pressed my back flat against the wall, my hands clamping instinctively over my stomach. The baby kicked violently—a sharp, startled movement that felt like an electric shock against my ribs.
“Clara,” a voice drifted down through the ventilation grate above our heads. It was a voice I had known for nearly a decade, but it didn't sound human anymore. It was raw, hoarse, and vibrating with manic adrenaline. “I know you’re in there.”
“Grant,” I said, fighting to keep my voice from trembling.
“You ruined my life!” he screamed, his boots shifting on the metal roof above. “You took my company! You took my name! Vanessa went to the feds, the banks have frozen my accounts, and the police are looking for me! You think you’re going to walk away from me and play the happy little heiress with my child?”
Julian stepped directly beneath the maintenance hatch, his weapon drawn and pointed upward at a forty-five-degree angle. “Step away from the hatch, Whitmore! There are six armed guards on the perimeter! You have nowhere to go!”
“I don’t care about the perimeter!” Grant shrieked. Through the small metal slats of the ceiling grate, I caught the glint of a steel pry bar. He was wedging it into the emergency escape panel. “If I’m going down, Clara, you’re coming with me! We’re going to settle this right now!”
With a violent screech of tearing metal, the emergency latch popped open.
A shower of dust and rust fell into the cab. A face appeared in the rectangular opening—wild-eyed, unshaven, with dark circles burned deep into hollow sockets. Grant looked like a ghost that had clawed its way out of an unmarked grave. In his right hand, he wasn't holding a corporate contract or an eviction notice.
He was holding a heavy, black snub-nosed revolver.
“Julian, no!” I screamed.
Everything happened in a blur of milliseconds.
Grant pointed the barrel straight down into the cab, aiming directly at my chest. But before his finger could compress the trigger, Julian fired two rounds straight up through the open hatch.
The deafening roar of the gunshots inside the enclosed steel cab was absolute. The concussive blast felt like a physical blow against my ears, followed by an immediate, high-pitched ringing that drowned out all sound.
Grant screamed—a wet, choked sound—and dropped the revolver. It clattered through the hatch, striking the rubber floor of the cab and skidding harmlessly beneath the handrail.
Above us, the heavy sound of boots running down the elevator shaft echoed through the darkness. The Boston Police tactical team had breached the maintenance access.
“Suspect down on the car roof! Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!”
Julian caught the maintenance hatch with one hand, his gun held safely at low-ready. “Vance security! The principal is secure inside the cab! Suspect is disarmed!”
Slowly, the heavy mechanical gears overhead groaned back to life as auxiliary power engaged. The elevator shuddered once, dropped three feet, and leveled off with the floor of Basement Level 2.
The heavy steel doors slid open.
Six police officers with tactical shields and assault rifles swarmed the entrance, securing the perimeter while paramedics rushed into the cab with a gurney.
I didn't need the gurney. I pushed past the outstretched hands, stepping out onto the concrete floor of the garage under my own power. My knees were shaking violently, and my ears were still ringing from the gunfire, but my head was clear.
Behind me, two officers lowered Grant Whitmore down from the emergency escape hatch on a backboard. He was alive—Julian’s rounds had caught him in the right shoulder and the upper bicep, neutralizing the threat with surgical precision.
Grant’s eyes fluttered open as they wheeled him past me. Blood soaked the torn shoulder of his dirty gray sweatshirt. He looked up at me, his lips trembling, searching my face for the woman who had spent eight years apologizing for his cruelty.
I looked down at him. There was no hatred left in me. There was only a cold, infinite distance.
“You’re done, Grant,” I whispered.
May you like
He tried to speak, but only a wet cough escaped his throat. The officers pushed the gurney into the back of an armored ambulance, slammed the double doors shut, and sped off toward the secure trauma ward under armed escort.
***
