Chapter 17 - The Police Arrive
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The gun jammed.
Sloane stared at the weapon in sheer disbelief, frantically pulling the slide to clear the chamber.
I didn't hesitate. I vaulted over the corner of the desk, tackling her around the waist.
We hit the floor hard, the wind knocking out of both of us. The gun skittered across the carpet, sliding under the leather sofa. Sloane screamed in rage, her fingernails clawing wildly at my face, aiming for my eyes.
I threw an elbow, catching her hard in the jaw. It was a messy, brutal fight—nothing like the elegant, calculated corporate warfare we had been waging for months. This was pure survival.
She kicked me in the ribs, scrambling desperately toward the sofa to retrieve the weapon.
I grabbed a handful of her trench coat and hauled her backward, pinning her to the floor just as the heavy glass doors of the executive suite were smashed open.
“Boston Police! Drop it! Drop the weapon!”
Three armed tactical officers flooded into the room, flashlights cutting through the dim emergency lighting.
I rolled off Sloane, throwing my hands in the air.
“The gun is under the sofa!” I yelled, gasping for breath.
Two officers hauled Sloane to her feet, violently pinning her arms behind her back and slapping heavy steel cuffs on her wrists. She didn’t fight them. She just went entirely limp, sobbing hysterically as the reality of her situation finally broke her mind.
Vance pushed his way through the officers a moment later, looking horrified.
“Claire! Are you hit?”
“I’m fine,” I breathed, leaning back against my desk, clutching my bruised ribs. “The gun jammed.”
Vance watched as they dragged Sloane out of the office.
“She cut the building’s power grid. It’s a felony break-in, attempted murder, and a violation of bail. She’s never seeing the outside of a cell again.”
I nodded slowly, looking at the scratch marks on my arms and the chaotic ruin of my pristine office.
The physical threat was over. Sloane was gone. Evan was exiled.
But as I looked at the flashing red security lights, I realized that Arthur had been right. Power is a lonely, dangerous island.
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And my phone, which had just regained signal, began to buzz with a new text message.
Unknown Number: You handled Sloane beautifully, Claire. But the game isn't over yet.
