The Extraction

Getting into the penthouse wasn't the problem. Julian had the codes, and even if Arthur had changed them, Corinne had the master key—a literal key, heavy and brass, that she kept on a chain around her neck.

The problem was getting Margaret out.

"Security has been tripled," Corinne said, spreading the schematics on the hotel coffee table. "There are guards in the lobby, guards in the elevator, and guards on the roof."

"What about the service elevator?" I asked.

"Monitored," Julian said. "And key-card access only."

"But they're not monitoring for a medical emergency," I said.

I looked at Corinne.

"You're still the wife on record at the facility. Arthur didn't have time to change the protocols there. Does that status extend to his private medical team?"

"Yes," Corinne said. "I authorize the treatments. I sign the checks."

"Then you authorize a transfer," I said. "Tonight. You call the private ambulance service Arthur uses. You tell them Mrs. Hawthorne has had a cardiac event and needs to be moved to Sinai immediately."

"They'll call Arthur to confirm," Julian said.

"They can't," I said. "He's dead."

"They don't know that yet," Corinne pointed out. "The news hasn't broken."

"They'll call his cell," I said. "And it's at the bottom of the ocean. So they'll call the next person on the list."

I pointed at Corinne.

"You."

Corinne took a breath. She picked up her phone.

"This is Mrs. Hawthorne," she said, her voice trembling perfectly. "We have a Code Blue at the residence. I need a transport team. Now. No, don't call Arthur, he's... he's indisposed. Just get here."

She hung up.

"They're coming," she said.

"Good," I said. "Now we need a driver."

"The ambulance will have a driver," Julian said.

"We can't trust their driver," I said. "Arthur pays them. If they realize who they're transporting—if they see she's sedated, not dying—they might make a call."

"So we hijack the ambulance?" Corinne asked, eyes wide.

"No," I said. "We replace the driver."

I looked at the door to the bedroom where the kids were sleeping.

"Leo," I called softly.

He appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He looked older than he had yesterday. He looked like his father.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"You still have your provisional license?"

"Yes."

"And you learned to drive on the estate roads?"

"Yes."

"Good," I said. "Get dressed. You're driving a paramedic unit."

We staged it perfectly. Corinne met the ambulance in the loading dock. She was hysterical, screaming about a heart attack. While she distracted the medics, Julian—wearing a stolen uniform jacket we'd bought from a surplus store—slipped into the front seat.

He disabled the GPS tracker.

Then he signaled Leo.

Leo was waiting in the shadows. He wasn't just a driver; he was the distraction. He set off the fire alarm in the adjacent building.

Chaos. Sirens. Confusion.

In the mayhem, the medics rushed up to the penthouse with the gurney. Corinne led them.

Ten minutes later, they came down.

There was a body on the stretcher. Strapped down. Covered with a sheet.

They loaded her into the back.

"I'll ride with her," Corinne said, climbing in.

The medics moved to the front.

"Hey!" Julian shouted, pointing at the smoke billowing from the building next door. "Move your rig! Fire truck's coming!"

The driver hesitated. He looked at the smoke. He looked at the ambulance.

"I got it," Leo said, stepping out of the gloom in a borrowed EMT vest. "I'll pull it around."

The driver, flustered and panicked by the sirens, tossed him the keys.

"Don't scratch it, kid."

Leo caught the keys. He jumped into the driver's seat.

He didn't pull it around.

He floored it.

The ambulance screeched out of the loading dock, tires smoking.

"Hey!" the medic shouted, running after them. "Hey!"

I watched from the parked car across the street. Julian was beside me.

"He's good," Julian said, a hint of pride in his voice.

"He's a Hawthorne," I said.

We followed the ambulance.

We wove through the city traffic, sirens wailing. Leo drove with a terrifying precision, cutting through intersections, dodging taxis.

"He's going too fast," Julian said, gripping the dashboard.

"He's scared," I said.

We reached the bridge. The traffic thinned.

But then I saw it.

In the rearview mirror.

Black SUVs. Two of them. No lights. No sirens.

Just speed.

"They're following us," I said.

"Who?"

"Asset Protection," I said. "Arthur's dead, but his payroll is still active. Someone made the call."

The SUVs accelerated. They were gaining on the ambulance.

"Leo!" I screamed at the windshield, as if he could hear me. "Faster!"

The lead SUV pulled up alongside the ambulance. The window rolled down. A man leaned out.

He wasn't holding a badge. He was holding a gun.

"Do something!" Julian yelled.

I slammed on the brakes. I spun the wheel.

Our car drifted sideways, blocking the lane.

The second SUV slammed into us.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world spun.

When I opened my eyes, the airbag was deflating in my face. Julian was groaning beside me.

I looked out the shattered window.

The ambulance was gone. Leo had made it across the bridge.

But the first SUV was still chasing him.

And I was trapped in the wreckage.