Chapter 4 - The Service Elevator
Sophia sprinted down the linoleum corridor, kicking off her gold designer heels.
She ran barefoot across the cold hospital tiles, holding Toby by the wrist.
The air smelled of stale bleach, floor wax, and industrial disinfectant.
At the end of the hall, the red arrow above the service elevator chimed softly.
Floor 1.
The heavy metal doors groaned open.
Stepping out into the hallway were Julian’s two security contractors.
Between them rolled a squeaking stainless-steel medical gurney.
On top of the gurney was a heavy canvas body bag, zipped tight to the collar.
One guard held a metal lockbox beneath his arm, its latch already pried open with a crowbar.
“Stop right there!” Sophia shouted, her voice echoing like a gunshot down the corridor.
The guards froze.
Toby let out a piercing, agonized shriek from behind her.
“Martha!” the boy cried, lunging toward the canvas bag.
“Get off her!”
The lead guard, Miller, dropped his shoulder, shoving Toby back against the wall.
Sophia didn't hesitate.
She snatched an iron fire extinguisher from the wall mount with both hands.
She swung the heavy red cylinder with all the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
The metal struck Miller square across his shoulder, knocking him into the gurney with a concussive bang.
The second guard reached inside his dark blazer for his concealed weapon.
“Pull that iron and you spend thirty years in Sing Sing,” a deep, commanding voice boomed from the foyer.
Stepping through the sliding glass entrance was Detective Frank Ramos.
Sophia’s older brother.
Chief of the NYPD Special Investigations Unit.
Frank held his service Glock drawn in a two-handed grip, laser dot locked onto the guard’s forehead.
Behind him marched four uniformed patrol officers with handcuffs drawn.
“Hands on your heads! Down on the tile!” Frank barked.
The two guards slowly raised their hands, dropping their weapons onto the linoleum.
Sophia dropped the fire extinguisher and threw herself onto the gurney.
With shaking fingers, she pulled the zipper down.
Lying inside was a frail, silver-haired woman with sunken cheeks and an oxygen cannula in her nose.
She was breathing—shallow, wheezing breaths, but alive.
Martha Cole opened her pale blue eyes, squinting up at the gold dress.
“Sophia…?” the old woman whispered, her dry lips barely moving.
“I’m here, Martha,” Sophia wept, taking the woman’s cold, papery hand.
“I’m right here.”
Martha reached toward the open lockbox on the floor.
“The cassette tape, Sophia…” Martha gasped, struggling for oxygen.
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