“Let’s get the paperwork started for the override,” I heard Chloe say to Tyler, her voice completely devoid of any remorse. “We can do it in the VIP lounge. Champagne?”
The sheer injustice of it burned through my chest, burning away the cold dampness of the Seattle rain, burning away my quiet grief, and replacing it with something entirely different.
Rage.
I had wanted to test their integrity. I had wanted to see if Marcus’s staff still possessed basic human decency. I had my answer. Now, the game was over.
“Let go of me,” I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a jagged, cutting edge that I hadn't used since I commanded construction sites thirty years ago.
“Keep walking, old man,” Davis grunted, shoving me harder toward the distant glass doors. The younger security guard fell in step beside him, watching me with a nervous energy, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to stop his partner.
We were passing the central reception desk—a massive, circular command center made of black granite where the administrative staff managed the showroom floor.
I planted my feet. I didn't try to pull away; instead, I simply stopped moving forward, letting my entire body weight drop, anchoring myself against the polished floor.
The sudden resistance caught Davis off guard. He stumbled slightly, his grip on my sweater slipping.
In that split second of freedom, I twisted my body sharply to the right. My left shoulder flared with a blinding, hot pain, but I ignored it. I stepped rapidly toward the granite reception desk. The two young receptionists sitting behind the tall counter gasped, rolling their chairs backward as I approached.
“Hey!” Davis shouted, recovering his balance and lunging after me. “Grab him!”
I didn't run for the door. I lunged over the low side of the granite counter. There, resting securely on a heavy metal base, was the brushed-steel microphone used for the showroom’s public address system.
I grabbed the heavy brass stem of the microphone. I could hear Davis’s heavy boots pounding against the floor right behind me. His hand grabbed the back of my collar, pulling tight, choking me slightly against the top button of my shirt.
With my free hand, I slammed my thumb down onto the glowing red button at the base of the microphone. The system engaged with a loud, electronic pop that echoed from speakers hidden in the ceiling of the massive showroom.
The ambient music playing in the background instantly cut off. The entire showroom plunged into an echoing silence.
I pulled the microphone directly to my mouth.
“Marcus Vance,” I said, my voice booming through the expansive room, amplified to a deafening volume. “This is Arthur Pendelton. I am standing at your front desk. Come down here immediately.”
I released the button.
Davis ripped me backward violently, tearing the microphone from my grasp. The heavy base crashed against the granite counter, sending papers and pens scattering onto the floor.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Davis roared, his face flushed with anger. He spun me around, pinning my back against the cold granite of the desk. The younger guard rushed in, grabbing my right arm and twisting it painfully behind my back.
“Get the cuffs,” Davis barked to his partner. “I’m not playing with this guy anymore. We’re calling the cops.”
I struggled, the pain in my twisted arm becoming excruciating. I couldn't breathe properly; my chest was heaving, my heart hammering a dangerous rhythm against my ribs.
Through the blur of pain and adrenaline, I looked across the showroom. Chloe had stopped walking toward the VIP lounge. She was standing frozen near the cafe, staring at the reception desk in shock. Tyler was beside her, his arrogant smile finally wiped from his face, replaced by a look of profound confusion.
They were all looking up.
High above the showroom floor, a second-story balcony wrapped around the rear of the building, housing the executive offices behind thick panes of frosted glass.
Directly above the Midnight Blue grand tourer, a heavy oak door slammed open with the force of a gunshot.
A man rushed out onto the balcony, gripping the glass railing so hard his knuckles turned white. It was Marcus Vance. He was in his mid-fifties, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, but his tie was pulled loose and his face was pale, completely drained of color.
Marcus looked down at the showroom floor. He saw the scattered papers. He saw Chloe standing frozen. He saw Tyler.
And then, his eyes locked onto the reception desk. He saw his two massive security guards pinning a small, elderly man in a beige cardigan against the granite. He saw my face.
I saw Marcus’s mouth fall open. I saw the absolute, unadulterated horror explode in his eyes.
“No,” Marcus gasped, though the word was barely audible over the distance.