Ch.23: Empty Rooms

The rifle barrel didn't waver. Silas's one good eye stared down the sights, fixed on my chest.

"I can't let you give her the drive, Harper," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Shoot her, Silas!" Mia snapped, her voice shrill with entitlement. "Shoot her and take it off her body!"

"Quiet," Silas commanded, not looking at her. "Harper, step away from her. We're leaving."

"I'm not leaving without my sister," I said, though the word 'sister' tasted like ash in my mouth.

"That's not your sister," Silas said. "That's an asset. And she's compromised."

"I'm not compromised!" Mia shouted, stepping forward. "I'm the only one here who knows what's going on! Sterling promised me the partnership! He promised me the Vane account!"

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn't scared. She was furious. She was ambitious. She was everything I had accused Mark Davis of being—a small person desperate to be big.

"You sold Liam out," I whispered. "For a job?"

"I sold him out because he was an idiot!" Mia yelled. "He was going to ruin everything! He was going to expose the Firm, expose the money... do you know how much we were making, Harper? Sterling was funneling millions through the family trust. *Our* family trust."

My knees felt weak. "We don't have a trust."

"We do now," Mia said, a cruel smile twisting her lips. "Or I do. You were always too busy saving the world to notice the money."

She held out her hand again.

"Give me the shard. Sterling is on his way. If I give it to him, I get everything. If you keep it... you get a bullet."

I looked at Silas. He hadn't moved.

"Silas," I said. "You said you wanted to burn Sterling's empire. She's part of it."

"I know," Silas said. "That's why I'm going to kill her."

He shifted his aim. The rifle barrel moved from me to Mia.

Mia's eyes widened. "What?"

"You betrayed your blood," Silas said. "You sold my son to the butchers. You don't get to walk away."

"No!" I shouted, stepping between them.

"Move, Harper!" Silas roared.

"She's my sister!"

"She's a traitor!"

"She's the only family I have left!"

I stood there, shielding the monster who had destroyed my life. It was irrational. It was stupid. But she was Mia. I had tied her shoes. I had paid her tuition.

"Don't do it, Silas," I pleaded. "We can take her. We can make her testify."

"She'll never testify," Silas said. "She's too deep."

"Then we force her."

I turned to Mia. She was cowering now, the bravado gone. She realized, finally, that her partnership deal didn't include bulletproof skin.

"Get up," I ordered.

"Harper..." she whimpered.

"Get. Up."

I grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. I shoved her toward the door.

"We're leaving," I told Silas. "All of us."

Silas lowered the rifle slowly. He looked at me with a mix of frustration and... respect?

"You're making a mistake."

"Probably," I said. "Let's go."

We moved into the hallway. The alarm hadn't triggered yet. We had maybe five minutes before the next patrol sweep.

"The elevator is too risky," Silas said. "We use the maintenance stairs."

We ran. Mia stumbled in her heels, whining about the cold, about the rough floor. I ignored her. I gripped the shard in my pocket so hard it cut my hand again.

We reached the stairwell. Silas kicked the door open.

And stopped.

Standing on the landing below us were three guards. Heavily armed.

They looked up.

"Contact!" one shouted.

Silas didn't hesitate. He opened fire.

The noise was deafening in the concrete echo chamber. Bullets sparked off the railing. I grabbed Mia and threw her back into the hallway.

"Go back!" I screamed.

"Where?" Mia shrieked.

"Anywhere but here!"

Silas was trading fire, suppressing the guards. "I'll hold them! Get to the roof! The helipad!"

"We can't leave you!"

"Go!"

He shoved me. Hard.

I grabbed Mia and ran. We sprinted down the pristine white corridor, past the empty cells.

Room 301. Room 302.

I needed a place to hide. A place to think.

I tried the handle of Room 303. The one with the sleeping man.

It was locked.

I used the override code. **8... 8... A... 0...**

The door hissed open.

I dragged Mia inside and slammed it shut, locking it behind us.

The room was dark. The man on the cot stirred.

"Who's there?" a groggy voice asked.

I froze. I knew that voice.

I fumbled for the light switch.

The fluorescents flickered on.

The man on the cot sat up, blinking against the glare. He was wearing a grey jumpsuit. He looked thin, pale, unshaven.

But I recognized him.

Every lawyer in the city recognized him.

It was Judge Halloway.

I stared at him, my brain short-circuiting. Halloway was the judge on my case. I had seen him in court this morning. I had shouted at him.

"You..." I whispered.

The man looked at me. His eyes were terrified.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Are you with Sterling? Please... tell him I'm ready to sign. I'll sign anything."

"Halloway?" I asked, stepping closer.

"I'm not Halloway," the man sobbed. "I'm his brother. His twin."

My knees hit the floor.

"What?"

"He took me," the man wept. "Six months ago. He locked me in here. He said... he said he needed a break. He said he needed to be in two places at once."

I looked at Mia. She was staring at the man, her face pale.

"Did you know about this?" I demanded.

"I... I knew there was a VIP asset," she stammered. "I didn't know who."

It all made sense. The erratic behavior in court. The sudden shifts in ruling. The way Halloway sometimes seemed to forget prior motions.

It wasn't one corrupt judge. It was two men. One real, one fake. Or maybe both fake.

Sterling wasn't just bribing the judiciary. He had replaced it.

The man on the cot looked at the bottle of wine Mia had been drinking, which I still clutched in my other hand.

"Please," he begged. "Just a sip. It's been so long."

I looked at the wine. A vintage Pinot Noir.

I looked at the room. It wasn't a cell. It was furnished like a hotel room, just like Mia's.

"You're not a prisoner," I said slowly. "You're a guest."

"I'm a spare," he whispered.

I looked around the room. There was a table in the corner. Set for one.

And on the plate, unfinished, was a steak. Still warm.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold ocean air.

Hostages don't drink vintage Pinot Noir.