THE POLICE SAID MY HUSBAND DIED IN A CAR CRASH AT 3 AM—SO WHO WAS SLEEPING IN MY BED?

The call severed with a sharp, hollow click.

The silence that followed was suffocating. I looked at Christopher, my eyes wide with sheer disbelief and rising panic.

"Gabriel Vance?" I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. "How many Vances are in this syndicate?"

"Gabriel is Arthur Vance’s older brother," Christopher said, his face pale as he rushed to the window and peered down through the blinds. "He’s the true architect of Father's European laundering network. When Christian and Marcus failed to deliver the forty-eight million, Gabriel activated the syndicate's private paramilitary wing."

Down on the street, three black unmarked SUVs had blocked both ends of our residential block. Men in dark civilian jackets and tactical earpieces were taking positions around the perimeter of the building.

Suddenly, the fire alarm in our hallway began to wail—a shrill, deafening screech accompanied by strobing white emergency lights.

WHOOP! WHOOP! EMERGENCY! EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY!

"They pulled the building alarm to clear out the civilians," Christopher said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the front door. "They want the building empty so they can corner us on the higher floors without police interference. We have to move right now!"

He grabbed his Glock from the kitchen drawer, shoved three spare magazines into his jacket pockets, and pulled me out into the smoky hallway.

The elevators were automatically disabled due to the fire alarm.

We sprinted toward the emergency stairwell at the end of the corridor. Christopher kicked open the heavy fire door, gun raised, checking the concrete landing above and below.

From four flights below us, the heavy, synchronized thud of tactical boots echoed up the concrete stairwell.

"They're coming up from the ground floor," Christopher whispered, pushing me back into the 14th-floor hallway. "We can't go down. We have to go up to the roof."

"The roof?" I gasped, running behind him as we took the secondary service stairwell upward. "Chris, we'll be trapped!"

"The adjacent residential building is only eight feet away from our roof parapet," Christopher said, taking the concrete stairs three at a time. "There’s a maintenance walkway connecting the two roofs for window-washing rigs. If we cross over to the neighboring building, we can take their service elevator down to 7th Avenue before they realize we slipped their net."

We climbed frantically—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen floors.

My lungs burned like fire. My legs felt like lead. The wailing sirens of the fire alarm reverberated through the concrete walls, creating an unbearable cacophony of sound.

Behind us, two floors down, the service door was kicked open with a violent crash.

"Target is moving toward the roof!" a harsh voice shouted in German over a radio transmitter. "Execute lethal force on sight!"

BANG! BANG!

Two high-caliber rounds chipped the concrete above our heads, showering us with dust and pulverized drywall.

Christopher spun around on the landing, leveled his Glock down the stairwell, and fired three rapid shots. A scream of pain echoed from below, followed by the sound of a body tumbling down the metal stairs.

"Keep running, Penny! Don't look back!" Christopher yelled, grabbing my hand and shoving open the heavy steel roof access door.

We burst out onto the roof into the blinding afternoon sun and the howling autumn wind.

Manhattan stretched out beneath us in every direction—a dizzying sea of glass, concrete, and distant traffic.

Fifty yards across the gravel-covered roof stood the steel maintenance bridge connecting our building to the luxury high-rise next door.

"Go! Run for the bridge!" Christopher shouted, pushing me forward while he took cover behind a massive industrial air conditioning unit, keeping his weapon trained on the roof access door.

I ran across the gravel, the wind whipping my hair across my eyes.