Chapter 16 - The Midnight Breach
The silence of the thirty-fourth floor corporate apartment was suffocating.
Outside the panoramic windows, a blizzard had descended upon Chicago. Thick sheets of blinding white snow swirled violently against the reinforced glass, blotting out the skyline below until the city looked like an endless, howling abyss of gray and white.
It was 3:15 a.m.
I was sitting on the edge of the master bed, fully dressed in dark jeans and my heavy work boots. Beside me, on the low wooden console, the dual-screen baby monitor glowed softly in the dark.
Screen A: Sadie, curled on her tummy, her little fist pressed against her cheek, breathing in rhythmic, innocent sighs.
Screen B: Theo, sprawled on his back beneath his patterned cotton blanket, one foot kicking out occasionally in his sleep.
I had contacted the police the second Greg appeared on my home security camera. Four cruisers had swarmed my suburban house within six minutes of his attempted break-in, but Greg had vanished into the maze of backyards and wooded ravines before they could corner him. He was a fugitive now, actively hunted by county and state troopers.
*He doesn't know where I am,* I repeated to myself like a mantra, clutching a hot mug of tea that had long since gone cold. *He thinks I'm at a local hotel. He has no idea this apartment exists. The lease is under a corporate holding shell.*
Then, the lights flickered.
It wasn't a brownout. It was a sharp, sudden snap.
The recessed ceiling LEDs died completely, plunging the penthouse suite into pitch-black shadow, save for the pale, ghostly glow of the baby monitor screen.
A low, mechanical groan echoed through the building's core as the primary ventilation vents sighed to a dead stop.
The backup emergency generator should have kicked on within three seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Nothing. Pure, suffocating darkness.
My breath caught in my throat. I set the tea mug down without making a sound and stood up, every nerve ending in my body screaming a primitive, visceral warning.
A commercial high-rise logistics tower does not lose generator power during a blizzard unless the transfer switch in the sub-basement has been manually tripped.
My cell phone sat on the nightstand. I picked it up, tapped the screen—*No Service*.
A signal jammer. A military-grade RF jammer, capable of blinding cellular and Wi-Fi signals within a hundred-foot radius.
Suddenly, from the far end of the long entrance corridor—near the private elevator foyer—came the faint, rhythmic click of a security lock being physically picked.
*Click.*
*Click.*
*Clack.*
The heavy steel fire door connecting the emergency service stairwell to the penthouse suite swung open with a soft, agonized groan of ungreased hinges.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, heavy boots dragging across the polished hardwood of the outer gallery.
I moved with absolute, silent speed. I reached into my coat pocket, drew the compact steel stun-baton I had taken from Hank’s security desk, and stepped into the nursery nook between Sadie and Theo’s cribs, putting my entire body between the doorway and my sleeping babies.
From the dark living room, a voice drifted through the cold, dead air.
It wasn't Greg.
It was high-pitched, rasping, and dripping with an insane, sing-song malice that froze the marrow in my bones.
May you like
"Carly..." Evelyn whispered, the wet dragging sound of her soaked boots inching closer to the bedroom threshold. "A grandmother always knows where to find her babies."
And then, from right behind me—from the shadows of the master bathroom's fire escape access—came the distinct, metallic sound of a window latch sliding open.
