The Evacuation
The euphoria of the strike lasted exactly fourteen minutes.
At 9:44 a.m., the security alarms in the penthouse didn't ring.
They died.
The low hum of the climate control ceased.
The digital locks on the elevator doors flashed from green to a dead, unblinking black.
The building's network had been severed.
Andrew immediately stepped away from the monitors.
The executioner was gone. The survivalist took over.
"They cut the hardlines," he said, his voice clipped and precise. "Victor isn't waiting for the SEC. He's sending a containment team."
Julie's stomach dropped.
"Containment. You mean a hit squad."
"Yes."
He moved past her, striding into the master bedroom. He didn't go to the safe behind the painting. He went to the floorboards beneath the heavy oak nightstand.
He pressed a sequence into the wood. A panel popped open.
He pulled out a heavy black canvas duffel bag.
Not a briefcase.
Not a laptop bag.
"We have roughly four minutes before they breach the reinforced doors in the lobby," Andrew said, unzipping the bag to check the contents. Passports. Cash. Two heavy, matte-black handguns.
Julie stared at the weapons.
"You really were preparing for a war."
"I told you," he said, tossing her a dark windbreaker. "Put that on. Leave the phone. Victor will track the GPS."
She dropped her phone on the bed. It felt like severing an artery to the outside world.
"Where are we going?"
"Down," Andrew said. "They expect us to take the helipad on the roof. I sold the helicopter two weeks ago. We're taking the service chute."
A heavy, metallic THUD echoed from the outer hallway.
They were at the penthouse door.
Andrew grabbed the duffel bag and took her hand.
His grip was iron.
"Do exactly as I say. Do not hesitate. Do not look back."
"I won't."
They moved into the kitchen. Andrew bypassed the main service elevator and opened what looked like a pantry door. Inside was a narrow, industrial utility shaft meant for the building's maintenance cables.
A steel ladder descended into the darkness.
"Go," he ordered.
Julie climbed onto the rungs. The metal was freezing.
Above them, the penthouse door splintered with a deafening crack. Men's voices shouted in the entryway. Professional. Tactical.
Andrew slipped into the shaft above her and pulled the false door shut just as footsteps stormed into the kitchen.
Total darkness enveloped them.
"Keep moving," Andrew whispered from above her.
They climbed down. Floor by floor.
Leaving the glass and steel monument behind.
Leaving the billions.
Leaving the safety.
When they finally hit the subterranean parking level, the air smelled of exhaust and damp concrete.
Andrew pushed open the grate.
They stepped out into the shadows.
"We need a car," Julie whispered, looking at the rows of luxury vehicles. "Yours are all tracked."
Andrew looked at her. A grim, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"That's why we're stealing one."