Chapter 16 - Fourteen Floors Down
We didn't take the freight elevator.
If the thermite incendiary charge detonated while we were descending the shaft, the fireball would turn the vertical elevator tube into a four-thousand-degree chimney, melting the steel cables and sending the cab plummeting fourteen stories to the basement.
"Stairs!" Miller roared, hauling me by the arm through the wrecked living room.
I paused for half a second, diving behind the overturned sofa to scoop up a terrified bundle of gray fur. My Russian Blue cat, Barnaby, was shivering beneath a decorative throw pillow. I shoved him firmly inside my oversized jacket, zipping it up to my chin with one hand while gripping Miller's belt with the other.
00:18.
00:17.
We burst through the heavy fire door into the concrete stairwell just as the rhythmic electronic beeping from the master closet abruptly shifted into a solid, high-pitched whine.
"Get down!" Miller yelled, throwing his body over mine on the concrete landing of the thirteenth floor.
Above us, the penthouse exploded.
It wasn't a concussive shockwave of black powder; it was a blinding, roaring eruption of chemical fury. The heavy steel fire door at the top of the stairs blew outward, glowing white-hot around the frame as a wave of superheated air and white flame roared into the stairwell.
The concrete walls groaned under the sudden, violent thermal expansion. Overhead sprinkler heads shattered, dumping hundreds of gallons of freezing water into the smoky gloom, creating a suffocating, blinding cloud of boiling steam.
"Keep moving! Don't stop!" Miller barked through a mouthful of soot, hauling me to my feet.
We sprinted down the concrete steps, taking them three at a time, our boots splashing through the torrent of water cascading down the stairwell. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
Alarms were screaming through every floor of the high-rise—a piercing, mechanical siren accompanied by an automated voice that echoed hollowly through the concrete: “ATTENTION. AN EMERGENCY HAS BEEN REPORTED. EVACUATE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY.”
Residents in bathrobes, business suits, and pajamas were tumbling out of their hallway doors, screaming in panic as the smell of burning structural chemicals drifted downward.
Miller led the way like a snowplow, flashing his silver badge high above his head. "Emergency! Clear the stairs! Keep to the right and move in an orderly line! Move, move, move!"
By the time we burst through the ground-floor exit doors into the cool San Francisco afternoon, three fire engines from the SFFD were already pulling onto Green Street, their massive sirens shaking the pavement. Tactical officers from the SFPD SWAT unit, clad in full black body armor and carrying assault rifles, were swarming the lobby, securing the perimeter.
I stumbled out onto the sidewalk, coughing the bitter taste of chemical smoke from my lungs, clutching the shivering lump inside my jacket tightly against my ribs.
Miller collapsed onto the low brick wall of the front garden, clutching his broken ribs, breathing in the cold Pacific air in deep, ragged gasps.
"Sergeant Miller!"
A team of SFPD tactical officers rushed over, their weapons lowering the second they recognized his badge. "We have the perimeter locked down! What's the situation on the fourteenth floor?"
"Suspect is neutralized," Miller wheezed, pointing up toward the top of the building.
A dense plume of black, oily smoke was billowing out of the shattered master bedroom windows into the gray sky, but the fire-suppression sprinklers had already contained the blaze to the concrete core of the penthouse.
"Richard Vance is down in the master suite," Miller reported, coughing through his fist. "Get a fire crew up there to secure the scene. There’s a canvas duffel bag on the floor containing twelve million dollars in bearer bonds. That bag belongs to the Department of Justice."
A young female paramedic hurried over, draping a warm blanket over my wet shoulders, gently reaching out to inspect the fresh blood seeping through the medical dressing on my temple.
"Ma'am, you need to sit down," she urged softly. "You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock," I said, my voice cutting through the wail of sirens with a clarity that surprised even myself.
I unzipped my jacket, gently setting Barnaby down into the carrier a helpful neighbor had rushed over to provide. Then I stood up, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders, and turned to look at the burning crown of the building I had worked five long years to purchase.
My condo was ruined. The walls were scorched, the windows were shattered, and my furniture was soaked in chemical retardant.
Yet, as I stood on the wet pavement, watching the smoke drift away toward the bay, a profound, unshakable weight lifted from my shoulders.
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The trap had been sprung. The predators had shown their teeth.
And they were the ones who had been ground into dust.
