I swept my flashlight beam across the wall, found the local breaker box for the sector lighting, and smashed it with my extinguisher. The entire third-floor concourse plunged into darkness, save for the weak, distant glow of emergency exit signs.
“Spread out! Find him!” Thorne yelled.
I dropped to my hands and knees, scrambling silently behind a row of heavy planters. I had twenty years of combat control training, and these guys were just bullies used to intimidating retail managers.
As the first thug, a massive guy named Briggs, stepped past my planter, I shot up. I didn’t use a weapon. I drove my palm upward into the base of his chin, snapping his head back, and followed with a brutal knee to his solar plexus. He dropped without a sound.
The thud of his body hitting the floor drew the other two. I stayed low, using the darkness. As they rushed past, I swept a heavy brass stanchion across the floor, taking out their legs. They crashed onto the marble. I didn't stay to fight them on the ground. I bolted for the escalators, taking the steps three at a time down to the ground floor.
I sprinted toward the main glass pavilion doors, freedom just fifty yards away.
But as I rounded the massive central fountain, the lights in the pavilion flickered on.
Standing perfectly still in the center of the exit path was Richard Vance. He was dressed immaculately, as always, but his right hand hung loosely at his side, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol.
“You’ve made this remarkably difficult, David,” Vance said, his voice echoing in the empty, cavernous mall. He raised the gun, pointing it directly at my chest. “Give me the drive.”
I stopped, my hands raised slowly, gasping for breath. “You're not walking away from this, Vance. Even if you shoot me, you think you can cover up a gunfight in your own mall?”
“I don’t have to cover it up,” Vance said, taking a slow step forward, his eyes dead and unblinking. “You’re a disgruntled, fired employee who broke into my property, assaulted my men, and tried to burn down my servers. I defended myself. I have a very expensive legal team who will ensure the police agree with me.”
“You killed your own daughter,” I spat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Vance’s face twitched, a momentary crack in his aristocratic armor. “She made her choice,” he hissed. “She chose that street rat over her family. She was going to give him my money. My legacy. I built this empire, David. I won't let it be dismantled by a mechanic and a bastard child. The baby was a mistake. You’re dying for a mistake.”
I stared down the barrel of his gun. But I wasn't panicked anymore. I actually smiled.
“You’re right, Mr. Vance,” I said quietly. “I am a disgruntled employee. Which means you forgot I still know the codes to the building.”
I reached down to my belt and tapped the transmit button on my security radio—the one I had synced to the plaza’s emergency Public Address system ten minutes before I broke into the server room. I had also keyed my cell phone, leaving an open line to Detective Larson.
Vance’s confession about his daughter and the baby hadn’t just been heard by me. It had been broadcasted over the loudspeakers to the entire perimeter, where three police cruisers had silently pulled up outside the glass doors behind him.