Chapter 77 Checkmate
I stumbled back, my chest heaving, staring at his twitching body.
I had done it. I had stopped him.
I dropped the baton.
"Tristan!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. "Tristan!"
Footsteps thundered from the wings.
Tristan burst through the heavy velvet curtains, his gun raised, his eyes scanning the stage frantically. He saw me standing over a body.
He didn't hesitate. He crossed the stage in seconds, kicking Silas’s dropped weapon away before dropping to his knees and aiming his gun at Silas’s head.
"Mina?" Tristan asked, his voice shaking.
"I'm okay," I gasped, falling to my knees beside him. "It's Silas. Tristan, it's Silas."
Tristan looked down at the man he had trusted with our lives. His face went completely blank, the betrayal registering as a physical shock.
"The comms," I explained quickly. "He switched the frequency. He was working for her."
Tristan’s jaw locked. He pressed the barrel of his gun against Silas’s temple. The man was groaning, slowly regaining consciousness from the electric shock.
"Tristan, no," I said, putting my hand over his. "Don't shoot him. He’s down."
"He tried to kill you," Tristan snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"And he's going to spend the rest of his life in a concrete box for it," I said firmly. "We don't execute people. We're not Ida."
The name acted like a bucket of cold water. Tristan blinked, the feral rage in his eyes slowly receding.
He lowered the gun.
Suddenly, the doors at the back of the auditorium slammed open.
"NYPD! Drop your weapons!"
Flashlights cut through the darkness. Dozens of police officers poured into the theater, followed closely by Vane.
Tristan stood up slowly, keeping his hands visible, holding his weapon by the barrel.
The police swarmed the stage. They hauled the groggy Silas to his feet, slamming him against the wall and slapping handcuffs on his wrists.
Vane ran up the stairs to the stage.
"Are you two okay?" the lawyer asked, looking between us and the arrested head of security. "I got a call from Lonnie saying the leak was a go, but when I tried to contact Silas for an update, his phone was dark. I didn't want to take chances."
"He was the mole," Tristan said, his voice devoid of emotion. "He switched the comms. He was going to kill her."
Vane looked at Silas being dragged away by the police. He shook his head.
"I'll make sure he never sees the sun again," Vane promised.
Tristan turned to me. The police were securing the scene, yelling orders, taking photos. But for Tristan, the rest of the world had faded away.
He walked over to me.
He didn't say a word. He just pulled me into his arms.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate hug of the previous night. It was a crushing, overwhelming embrace. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him just as tightly.
"It's over," I whispered against his chest. "We caught him. It's really over."
He didn't answer. He just held me, his body trembling slightly with the aftermath of the adrenaline.
We stood there in the center of the illuminated stage, surrounded by the chaos of the police, holding onto each other.
The snare had worked. We had caught the ghost.
We were safe.
I closed my eyes, letting the relief finally wash over me.
But as I stood there, held in the arms of the man I loved, a sudden, sharp chill ran down my spine.
I opened my eyes, looking out over Tristan’s shoulder into the dark, empty rows of the auditorium.
The halogen light didn't reach past the first few rows. The rest of the theater was a pitch-black void.
And from that void, I heard it.
Not a footstep. Not a scrape.
A slow, rhythmic sound.
Someone was applauding.
Tristan stiffened against me. He heard it too.
He spun around, pulling me behind his back, raising his weapon toward the darkness.
"Who's there?" Tristan shouted, his voice echoing in the massive space.
The police officers stopped moving. Flashlight beams frantically swept the upper balconies, the lower boxes, the back aisles.
Nothing. Just dust motes dancing in the light.
"Show yourself!" Tristan roared.
The slow clapping stopped.
A voice floated out from the darkness.
It was high. It was sweet. It was terrifyingly familiar.
"Bravo, Tristan. Bravo."
My blood turned to ice. My heart stopped beating.
It wasn't a recording. It wasn't an echo.
It was her.
From the shadows of the royal box, high above the stage, a figure stepped forward to the railing.
She was wearing a white silk robe. Her hair was perfectly styled.
Ida smiled down at us.
"Did you really think a rented guard was my only plan?" she asked, her voice carrying easily over the stunned silence of the police.
She raised her hand.
She was holding a gun.
Not a small handgun. A heavy, matte-black assault rifle.
And she was pointing it directly at me.
"Checkmate," Ida said softly.