Chapter 16 - The Tables Turn
Before Julian’s fingers could clear his holster, Christian moved with blinding speed, tackling his uncle hard against the reinforced steel server racks. The two men crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and expensive wool fabric as the surrounding guards raised their weapons, shouting in panicked confusion.
'Hold your fire! Don't shoot!' one of the guards yelled, hesitant to fire on their employer.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a heavy steel wrench from the maintenance tray beside the console and hurled it directly into the vault’s master electronic control panel, smashing the digital locking mechanism with a shower of electrical sparks.
The vault’s heavy five-ton steel security door slammed shut automatically under emergency backup power, sealing the chamber off from the rest of the building with a deafening hydraulic thud.
Julian managed to shove Christian off him, scrambling to his feet with a bloody lip and a furious, twisted expression. He drew a sleek silver Walther PPK pistol from his holster, leveling it directly at Christian’s chest.
'You think a heavy door is going to save you?' Julian screamed, his voice cracking with unhinged rage. 'I’ll execute both of you right here, wipe the servers, and have your bodies dissolved in acid before the afternoon board meeting!'
He shifted the barrel of the gun toward me.
I didn't blink. I reached behind my back, pulled the antique Colt .38 I had kept concealed in my waistband, and fired through the fabric of my jacket with a deafening roar.
The bullet caught the edge of Julian’s expensive Italian leather shoe, punching a hole through the floorboards and sending him stumbling backward with a sharp cry of shock and pain. His pistol flew from his hand, clattering across the concrete floor out of reach.
Before he could recover, Christian swept his legs out from under him, pinning Julian face-down against the floor with a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades, twisting his arm behind his back until bone and joint groaned in protest.
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'It’s over, Uncle,' Christian panted, pressing a heavy zip-tie cuff around Julian’s wrists with practiced efficiency. 'Your empire is dust.'
As if on cue, the muffled wail of dozens of police sirens echoed down from the Savannah streets high above us, followed by the heavy thrumming blades of federal law enforcement helicopters landing on the rooftop helipad.
