“No.” His voice hardened. “You’re getting out. You’re taking Eleanor’s evidence somewhere safe. You’re making sure this case is finished. That’s how we honor her—by making sure the truth survives.”
Behind her, metal groaned at the vault entrance. Someone was working on the systems.
“Jack, I love you,” Annie said, the words breaking free before fear could stop them. “I’m not losing you. Not again.”
His breath caught. “If something happens to me, remember that these past days with you were the best of my life. Remember that I finally stopped being afraid—and that it was because of you.”
The call ended.
Annie stared at the screen, her hands shaking, tears blurring the numbers. Jack was walking into Sarah Mitchell’s trap, and every instinct in her screamed to run toward him instead of away.
“Ms. Whitaker,” Agent Chen said gently. “We have to move.”
Annie wiped her face and drew in a breath that burned. Jack was buying them time. She wouldn’t waste it—but she wouldn’t abandon him either.
“Agent Chen,” she said as they turned toward the tunnel, “how long until your teams are fully in position around the bank?”
Chen studied her. “They’re close. Why?”
“Because I have an idea,” Annie said quietly. “And it might be the only way to stop this without letting Jack walk into that building alone.”
***
Jack sat in his car in the bank parking lot, surrounded by police vehicles and emergency responders, knowing that he was about to walk into what would probably be the last ten minutes of his life. His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat, and the pain medication was wearing off, but his mind was crystal clear.
This is how it ends, he thought. Not in Some dramatic firefight or heroic last stand, but in a trade. My life for the lives of innocent people who got caught up in a century-old conspiracy.
It wasn't the ending he would have chosen, but it was the ending that felt right. Eleanor Blackwood had sacrificed her life to preserve the truth. Now it was his turn to make a similar choice.
His phone rang one final time, and Jack answered it knowing who would be on the other end.
"Detective Calloway." Sarah Mitchell's voice was crisp, professional, almost businesslike. "I trust you've made your decision."
"I'll come in," Jack said simply. "But I want to see proof that the hostages are alive and unharmed before I surrender my weapon."
"Of course. We're not monsters, Detective. We're simply businesspeople protecting our family's legitimate interests."
Legitimate interests. The phrase would have been laughable if the situation weren't so deadly serious. Sarah Mitchell had convinced herself that murder, arson, and hostage-taking were justified because they protected her claim to a fortune built on inheritance fraud.
"I'm walking to the front entrance now," Jack said, getting out of his car despite the shouted protests from the police officers who'd been trying to keep him away from the bank. "I'm armed, but I'll surrender my weapon at the door."
"Excellent. And Detective? Please don't do anything heroic. We both know how those gestures typically end."
Jack hung up and began walking across the parking lot toward the bank's main entrance. Every step felt surreal, like he was watching Someone else make the decision to trade his life for the lives of strangers. But as he approached the building where Annie was trapped, he realized that this didn't feel like sacrifice at all.
It felt like coming home.
The bank's front doors opened as he approached, and Jack found himself face to face with two men in tactical gear carrying assault rifles. Professional mercenaries, just as he'd expected.
"Weapon," one of them said curtly.
Jack slowly drew his service pistol and placed it on the ground, then stepped back with his hands visible. One of the mercenaries kicked the gun away while the other kept his rifle trained on Jack's chest.
"Inside," the first mercenary ordered.
The bank's main floor had been transformed into a command center, with electronic equipment set up on customer service desks and additional armed men positioned at strategic points around the room. Bank employees and customers sat on the floor near the teller windows, their faces reflecting the terror of people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But it was the woman standing near the bank manager's office who commanded Jack's attention. Sarah Mitchell was smaller than he'd expected, well-dressed and professional-looking, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from wealth and power. She looked like Someone who belonged in a boardroom, not Someone orchestrating a hostage situation.
