Chapter 7 - The Intercept
We stumbled into the grand foyer. I hid Emily in the coat closet. “Stay here. Do not make a sound,” I instructed, grabbing a heavy bronze statue from the console table.
Through the massive front windows, I saw Beatrice. She was dragging a screaming Chloe toward her vintage Mercedes. The security gates at the end of the driveway were opening—she had programmed them to let her out.
“Let her go!” I sprinted out the front doors, clearing the marble steps in a single bound.
Beatrice spun around, her eyes widening in shock. She pulled a small, silver revolver from her designer handbag and leveled it at my chest.
“You really are a persistent pest, Arthur,” she sneered. “Back away. I’ll shoot you right here and say you attacked me.”
“Papa!” Chloe cried, struggling against Beatrice’s iron grip.
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“You won't get away with this,” I stepped forward, putting myself directly between the gun and my daughter. “My security team didn't go to the airport. They are watching this right now.”
Beatrice laughed, a shrill, manic sound. “Your security team works for the highest bidder. And in about ten minutes, I’m going to be very, very rich.”
