On Christmas Eve, I watched my father-in-law hurl a crystal glass at my mother-in-law's head.

The auditorium devolved into absolute pandemonium.

Reporters shouted questions over the din of screaming corporate executives, camera lights flashed in a blinding strobe, and federal agents swarmed the stage, surrounding the podium before Robert’s private security detail could react.

Richard panicked completely. He dropped to his knees behind the mahogany desk, cowering like a beaten dog, his hands over his splinted face as two FBI agents pinned his arms behind his back and snapped steel handcuffs around his wrists.

"Get off me!" Richard wailed, his voice echoing through the open broadcast microphones. "I didn't do anything! It was my father! It was all Robert! He made the transfers! Talk to my father!"

Robert didn't panic. Even as Agent Miller forced his hands behind his back, Robert stood rigidly upright, his cold, reptilian glare sweeping across the mezzanine balcony until his eyes locked onto mine.

He didn't look defeated. He looked homicidal.

As Miller hauled him away, Robert mouthed five words directly to me: *You are going to burn.*

I turned away from the railing and looked at Martha. She was trembling, but her head was held high. For the first time in her adult life, she didn't look down at the floor.

"It’s over," she whispered.

"The public part is over," I said, checking my phone as an encrypted message popped up from Elena.

*MESSAGE: Blackbriar operatives are still in the building. They aren't standing down. Robert gave a kill-switch order to his private security team before he walked onto the stage. They’re cutting the stairwell power. Get out of the tower NOW.*

My jaw tightened. Robert knew the federal charges would take months, maybe years, to navigate through the courts. But if Martha and I were dead before we could testify before a federal grand jury, the criminal case would lose its primary witnesses, and his battery of high-priced lawyers could dismantle the digital evidence as illegally obtained hearsay.

"Martha," I said, grabbing her arm firmly. "We have to run."

The emergency lights on the mezzanine suddenly flickered and died, plunging the hallway into a shadowy, eerie twilight.

From the end of the corridor near the executive elevators, the heavy fire door clicked open with a soft, ominous metallic scrape.

Three men stepped into the corridor. They weren't wearing suits. They wore tactical gear, ballistic vests, and carried silenced submachine guns held at low-ready. Their movements were fluid, disciplined, and utterly silent.