Ch.45: The Blackout

The darkness was total, save for the strobing red of the emergency lights.

"They're bypassing the biometric locks," Silas said, watching the security feeds on his battery-powered tablet. "They're using thermal lances."

"How long?" Julian asked.

"Two minutes. Maybe less. They're not here to arrest us. They're here to sanitize the site."

"Sanitize?" I asked.

"Kill everyone," Silas clarified. "Burn the building. Make it look like a gas leak."

He handed me a pistol.

"Do you know how to use this?"

"I'm a lawyer," I said, my hands shaking as I took the cold steel. "I argue about guns. I don't shoot them."

"Point and click," Silas said. "Aim for the center of mass. Or the head, if they're wearing body armor."

He turned to Julian. "You take the east stairwell. I'll take the elevator bank. We need to hold them off long enough to get to the panic room."

"The panic room is a dead end," Julian said. "If we go in there, we're trapped. They'll just weld the door shut and let us suffocate."

"It's better than a bullet," Silas argued.

"No," Julian said. "We fight."

He picked up a heavy, decorative sculpture from the coffee table. A jagged piece of abstract steel.

"You're going to fight a mercenary squad with art?" I asked, incredulous.

"It's heavier than it looks," Julian said.

The elevator doors pinged. Not the main elevators. The service lift.

"They're here!" Silas shouted.

The doors blew open. Smoke poured out, followed by the chatter of automatic fire.

Silas returned fire, taking cover behind the marble island in the kitchen. Bullets chewed up the expensive stone, sending chips flying like shrapnel.

"Go!" Silas yelled. "Get back!"

I scrambled over the couch, dragging Julian down with me.

Three men in tactical gear emerged from the smoke. They moved with professional precision, sweeping the room.

Silas dropped one with a headshot. The other two returned fire, pinning him down.

"Flanking!" one of them shouted.

A fourth man rappelled through the broken window—the same way Silas had entered days ago. He landed right next to us.

I raised the gun. My hands were slick with sweat.

*Point and click.*

I pulled the trigger.

The gun bucked in my hand. The shot went wide, smashing a vase.

The mercenary turned, raising his rifle.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

But the shot never came.

There was a sickening crunch of bone on metal.

I opened my eyes.

Julian was standing over the mercenary. He had swung the sculpture like a club, catching the man in the side of the helmet. The visor was shattered. The man was down, unconscious.

Julian didn't stop. He kicked the rifle away, then stomped on the man's knee with a brutal efficiency that made me wince.

He picked up the rifle. He checked the magazine, cleared the chamber, and adjusted the sights in one fluid motion.

"Julian?" I whispered.

He looked at me. His face was splattered with blood. His eyes were cold, focused.

"I grew up in boarding schools, Harper," he said, wiping the blood from his knuckles. "I learned to fight before I learned to multiply."

He turned and fired two shots.

The two mercenaries pinning Silas down dropped.

Silas stood up, looking at Julian with new respect.

"Nice shot, boss."

"Don't call me boss," Julian said. "Call me point man."

He moved toward the door.

"We're not going to the panic room," he said. "We're going to the subway."

"The subway?" Silas asked. "The tunnels are flooded."

"Not the city tunnels," Julian said. "My tunnels."

He walked to the bookshelf. He pulled *The Wealth of Nations*.

The wall slid open.

Behind it wasn't a vault. It was an elevator shaft. Old. Rusted.

"My grandfather built this during the riots of '28," Julian said. "It goes straight down to the old pneumatic transit line. It's off the grid."

"Does it work?" I asked.

"We're about to find out."

He hit the button. The gears groaned. The cage rattled upward.

"Incoming!" Silas shouted.

More men were pouring into the hallway. A dozen of them.

We retreated into the secret shaft. Julian laid down covering fire while Silas got the door closed.

Bullets sparked against the closing steel.

We were safe. For now.

The elevator descended, plunging us into darkness.

I looked at Julian. The billionaire. The boy king. The killer.

He was reloading the rifle, his hands steady.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

He looked at me in the gloom.

"I'm the man who is going to save your life," he said. "Whether you like it or not."