Chapter 25 Landlord's ledge

Chapter 25 Landlord's ledge
The Landlord's Ledger

The rooftop wind whipped my hair into a frenzy as SWAT medics swarmed Damian, their shouts cutting through the chopper blades' roar. Blood soaked his pant leg from Victor's shot, dark and sticky under my hands as I pressed a makeshift tourniquet from my scarf. "Stay with me, Damian—please," I begged, my voice hoarse over the chaos. His face was ashen, blue eyes glazing, but he gripped my wrist weakly, that stubborn spark flickering. "Ava... got you..." he rasped, before paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher, IVs stabbing in, sirens blaring as they airlifted him away.

Victor lay cuffed and groaning nearby, SWAT pinning him like a bug, his goons zip-tied and dragged off. Brittany paced frantically, yelling into her phone at lawyers, while Lena hugged me tight, her sobs mixing with mine. "He's tough—he'll pull through," she whispered, but doubt gnawed at us both. Then, from the shadows of the rooftop access door, the figure stepped fully into the floodlights: my landlord, Mr. Hargrove. The greasy-haired slumlord from my Brooklyn walk-up, with his perpetual five-o'clock shadow and cheap suits, smirking like he'd won the lottery. "Rent's due, Ms. Thompson," he drawled, holding up his phone with that damning photo of us—snipers' lasers dancing on our chests. "And your secrets? Priceless."

My blood turned to ice. Hargrove? The guy who'd evicted me last week over late payments, always leering during inspections? "You?" I spat, shoving Lena behind me, heart pounding with fresh betrayal. SWAT froze, weapons half-raised, as he tossed a USB drive at my feet—clinking on the gravel. "The real boss speaks," he said, voice oily. "Meet at the reunion gym—alone—or Damian bleeds out for real. Those medics? I own half the chopper crew."

Brittany whirled, eyes blazing. "You slimy toad! Victor's muscle, and now this? What's your angle—extortion from evictions?"

Hargrove chuckled, pocketing his phone. "Angles? Try empires, blondie. I own half of Queens' dumps—wiretaps in every wall. Ava's sob stories? Gold. Hacked her router months ago, fed Mark the Mark-Ava tapes. Greg paid premium for Black Enterprises dirt." He nodded at the USB. "Everything's there—Damian's 'murder' unedited, your deepfakes raw. But the gym? That's for the finale. Come solo, or I trigger the leaks. And those snipers? Mine—rent-a-threat from dark web buddies."

Lena gasped, pulling me back. "Ava, don't. He's bluffing—cops have him."

But Hargrove's smirk widened, eyes glinting under the helipad lights. "Bluff? Watch." He tapped his watch—a beep echoed, and my phone buzzed: Damian's vitals feed, hacked, heart rate spiking dangerously. "Overdose in his IV—antidote's with me. Gym, midnight. Tick-tock."

SWAT lunged, but he bolted for the service stairs, vanishing like smoke. "Secure him!" a tactical officer barked, teams pouring down after. Brittany grabbed the USB, plugging it into her tablet frantically. "Holy shit—files, chats. Hargrove's been the ghost! Wired your apartment for porn-level surveillance, sold to Mark, Greg, even Victor. He's the hub—laundering through fake evictions."

I snatched the tablet, scrolling: logs of my cries over Mark, influencer meltdowns, even bathroom glimpses. Revulsion hit like vomit. "He watched everything? That creep—evicted me to cover tracks?" Tears burned, humiliation raw, but fury ignited. Damian was fighting for life because of this worm-infested nobody.

Lena hugged me tighter. "We go to the cops—full evidence."

"No," I said, voice steeling. "He'll kill Damian. I go alone, record it, bait the trap." Emotions swirled—fear for Damian twisting my gut, love blooming fierce despite the lies, determination pushing me forward.

Brittany raised an eyebrow. "Alone? Stupid. I'm coming—tech whiz now, remember? We hack him back."

Lena nodded. "Me too. Sisters stick."

We piled into an unmarked SWAT SUV, sirens low, racing to the old Queens gym—the reunion site, now a derelict shell under July moonlight. "Plan," I said, phone to ear with a cop contact. "You shadow—silent entry. I confront, you swoop."

Inside the gym, banners still hung limp, smelling of dust and sweat. Hargrove waited center court, under flickering fluorescents, a briefcase at his feet. "Ava. Alone, like I said? Or your boyfriend flatlines."

I stepped forward, mic hidden in my necklace—live to police. "Where's the antidote? And why? Some landlord grudge?"

He laughed, circling me like a shark. "Grudge? Try jackpot. Your viral crash? I saw opportunity—bugged deeper, caught Mark's cheating vids. Sold to Greg for Black dirt. Victor? Desperate buyout. Even Brittany's hubby chipped in for merger leaks." He popped the briefcase: vials glinting, plus a laptop streaming Damian's OR feed—surgeons scrambling. "Sign this—waive all claims, give me your follower list for spam scams. Then antidote."

Brittany's voice crackled in my earpiece—hidden. "Stall. Tracing his signal."

"You pig," I snarled, inching closer. "Watched me undress? Fed my pain to psychos? For what—quick cash?"

Hargrove leered. "Cash? Millions. Your tears trended dark web. Mark's revenge funded my yacht. But you? The spark. Pointed out Damian—my cue to escalate."

Revulsion choked me. "You're done. Cops have the USB—"

"Lies," he snapped, pulling a remote. Damian's feed spiked—alarms wailing. "Antidote now, or he codes." What in the hell was going on. This was all happening so fast and so wrong I could barely understand what was going off. I'm going to set everything straight. The records the standard, the setting! I was tired and sick of this trash I was calling a person like myself a hero in my own world. I was tired of living this way. There's wasn't much to think of anymore. I wasn't thinking. I was tired of thinking so I decided that today's going to be the last. Beofe I could halt my thoughts my body responded for itself !

"Wait!" I lunged for the briefcase, but he backhanded me—stinging cheek, tumbling to mats. Door burst—Brittany and Lena charging, SWAT behind. "Got you!"

Hargrove fired wildly—shots pinging bleachers. Chaos: Lena tackling him, Brittany smashing the laptop. I grabbed a vial, but he kicked free, remote smashing—Damian's feed flatlined.

"No!" I screamed, as SWAT swarmed. Hargrove cuffed, laughing. "Too late—backup trigger sent. But wait—real boss incoming."

Elevator dinged distantly. Footsteps. A woman emerged from shadows: my mom, eyes cold, holding a second remote. "Hello, darling. Time to pay for ditching the family business."