Chapter 30: The Cavalry

Chapter 30: The Cavalry
Catherine's POV

The duct tape tastes like chemicals and defeat, but I refuse to let either win. My wrists burn where the rope cuts into my skin, and my back aches from sitting in this chair for what feels like hours. But my mind is sharp as ever, calculating angles and possibilities like I'm back in the boardroom fighting for my company's life.

These men think they've caught a helpless old woman. They have no idea who they're dealing with.

I've been watching Vincent since he walked into my grandson's home like he owned it. He's not as smart as he thinks he is. His eyes give him away constantly checking his phone, looking toward the windows, tapping his fingers against his leg. He's nervous. Good. Nervous men make mistakes.

The smartwatch hidden under my sleeve vibrates against my wrist. Another message sent to Detective Morrison, my contact at Chicago PD. I've been texting him for the past twenty minutes, one letter at a time, using the watch's voice-to-text feature with barely whispered words. Vincent's men are too busy watching Andy and Laura to notice an old woman mumbling under her breath.

Penthouse. Armed men. Hostage situation. Send backup.

The messages went out before they even finished tying me up. I may be seventy-two, but I didn't build Hayes Industries by being helpless. I learned a long time ago that you fight with whatever weapons you have, even if it's just a piece of technology strapped to your wrist.

Vincent paces in front of Laura like a caged animal, his cheap cologne mixing with the smell of broken glass and spilled champagne. He thinks he's in control, but I can see the sweat beading on his forehead. He keeps checking the time, which tells me this wasn't supposed to take so long.

"You know what your problem is, Vincent?" I try to say through the tape, but it comes out as muffled sounds. One of his men the thin one with dead eyes steps closer to me.

"She's trying to talk," he tells Vincent.

Vincent glances at me like I'm a piece of furniture that's making too much noise. "Let her. Old woman probably wants to beg for her life."

The thin man peels back a corner of the tape, and I spit to get the taste of adhesive out of my mouth. "I said, you know what your problem is, Vincent?"

His eyebrows rise in surprise. He wasn't expecting me to sound so calm, so controlled. Most people would be crying by now, pleading for mercy. But I've stared down board members who wanted to destroy everything my husband and I built. I've survived hostile takeovers, corporate espionage, and business rivals who would have loved to see me fail.

This is just another day at the office.

"Enlighten me, grandma," Vincent says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're thinking too small." I keep my voice steady, conversational. "Two million dollars? That's nothing to a Hayes. We spend more than that on art for our offices."

Vincent's eyes narrow. He doesn't like being called small, which is exactly what I was counting on. Men like him, they live on fear and respect. Take that away, and they crumble.

"You think I'm stupid?" he asks, taking a step closer to my chair.

"I think you're limiting yourself." I let my gaze drift around the penthouse, taking in the expensive furniture, the crystal chandelier, the view of Chicago that costs more per month than most people make in a year. "Look around you, Vincent. This is just one apartment. Andy has properties all over the world. Stock portfolios worth more than some countries' GDP. And you want two million?"

I can see the wheels turning in his head. Greed is a predictable weakness, and men like Vincent always want more than they started with.

Behind him, Andy's face is pale with worry, but I catch his eye and give him the smallest nod. Trust me, I try to tell him with my look. I know what I'm doing.

"What are you getting at, old woman?" Vincent asks.

"I'm getting at the fact that you're settling for scraps when you could have the whole meal." I lean forward as much as the ropes allow. "But you'd need to be smart about it. Strategic. Most men like you don't have the vision for that kind of operation."

Vincent's chest puffs up with wounded pride. Perfect. I've been playing men like him for fifty years inflate their ego while questioning their intelligence, and they'll do exactly what you want them to do.

"I've got plenty of vision," he says.

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you broke into a billionaire's penthouse for pocket change." I let disappointment creep into my voice. "My late husband would have been insulted by such a small-scale thinking."

The watch on my wrist vibrates twice. Morrison's signal that backup is in position. My heart rate picks up, but I keep my expression neutral. Just a few more minutes.

"Your husband was a weak old man who got lucky," Vincent says, his voice getting louder.

Now I let real steel enter my voice. "My husband built an empire from nothing. He employed thousands of people and changed the face of Chicago. What have you built, Vincent? Besides a reputation for scaring women and children?"

Vincent's face darkens, and I know I've hit a nerve. Men like him hate being reminded of what they really are bullies who prey on the vulnerable because they're too weak to fight anyone their own size.

"You don't know anything about me," he snarls.

"I know enough." I've had time to study him while sitting in this chair, time to read his tells and weaknesses. "I know you're working for someone else. I know this isn't your plan you're just the muscle. And I know you're scared of whoever is really pulling the strings."

Vincent's hand twitches toward his jacket, where I'm sure he keeps a weapon. But he doesn't draw it. Not yet. He's still listening, which means I still have control of this conversation.

"You want to know what I think, Vincent?" I continue, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I think someone promised you easy money for a quick job. But nothing about this has been easy, has it? Too many variables. Too many witnesses. Too much heat."

His phone buzzes, and he glances at it quickly. Whatever he sees there makes his face go pale.

"Time to go," he tells his men, but his voice lacks conviction. He's rattled, off-balance. Exactly where I want him.

"Running away already?" I ask. "And here I thought you were a man who finished what he started."

Vincent spins around to face me, his face twisted with rage. "You think you're so smart, don't you? Sitting there in your designer clothes, looking down on people like me."

"I'm not looking down on you, Vincent." I keep my voice gentle, almost pitying. "I'm looking through you. And you know what I see? A frightened little boy who never learned the difference between respect and fear."

The lights in the penthouse flicker once, then go out completely.

Emergency lighting kicks in a second later, bathing everything in an eerie red glow. Vincent spins around, his hand going to his jacket, finally drawing the gun I knew was there.

"What did you do?" he shouts at me.

I smile, feeling genuinely happy for the first time since this nightmare started. "I did what I always do, Vincent. I fought back."

Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside multiple sets, moving with military precision. Vincent's men look toward the door, their own weapons appearing in their hands like magic tricks.

"Chicago PD!" a voice booms from outside. "Building is surrounded! Come out with your hands visible!"

Vincent's face goes white as bone. He stares at me with something that might be respect if it wasn't mixed with so much hatred.

"You've been texting them," he realizes. "This whole time, you've been"

"Talking." I finish his sentence for him. "Yes, I've been talking. To Detective Morrison, specifically. He's a friend of the family. Very responsive to emergency messages, especially when they come from Hayes Industries board members."

Vincent raises his gun, pointing it directly at my chest. His hand shakes with rage and fear.

"You think you're so clever," he hisses.

"I think I'm still alive," I reply calmly. "Which is more than I can say for your exit strategy."

Laura steps forward, her face pale but determined. "Vincent, please. You don't have to hurt anyone else. Just put the gun down."

"Shut up!" Vincent swings the weapon toward her, and I see Andy tense like a coiled spring. "All of you shut up! I need to think!"

But there's no time to think. The penthouse door explodes inward with a crash that sounds like thunder. Dark figures pour through the opening police officers in tactical gear, red laser sights dancing across the walls like deadly fireflies.

"Drop your weapons! Now!"

Vincent's men scatter like roaches when the lights come on. The thin one tries to run toward the balcony, but two officers tackle him before he makes it three steps. The third man drops his gun and puts his hands up, smart enough to know when he's beaten.

But Vincent still has his weapon trained on Laura, his finger on the trigger, sweat dripping down his face like tears.

"Stay back!" he screams at the officers. "I'll kill her! I swear I'll kill her!"

The room goes deadly quiet. Even in the chaos, everyone can see that Vincent is past the point of rational thought. He's a cornered animal now, and cornered animals are the most dangerous kind.

Detective Morrison steps through the doorway, his own weapon drawn but lowered. He's a tall man with gray hair and kind eyes, someone I've known for fifteen years through various charity functions.

"Vincent Moreau," he says, his voice calm and professional. "Let's talk this through."

Vincent laughs, high and sharp. "Talk? There's nothing to talk about! She ruined everything!"

He jerks his head toward me, his eyes wild with rage and desperation.

"Mrs. Hayes," Morrison says without taking his eyes off Vincent. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine, Detective," I reply, though my wrists are raw and bleeding from the ropes. "Just ready to go home."

"Vincent," Morrison tries again. "Look around you. It's over. Don't make this worse than it has to be."

For a moment, I think Vincent might listen. His gun wavers, and something almost human flickers in his eyes.

Then his phone rings.