I don't wait for a dismissal. I walk past the federal agents, past the kneeling contractors, and head toward the alley.
The flashing lights of the ambulance illuminate the narrow brick corridor. Two paramedics are securing a stretcher. Grant is sitting on the edge of the gurney. His overcoat is gone, his white shirt cut open to expose the thick, white bandages wrapped tightly around his upper shoulder.
He looks pale, but his jaw is set in its usual, immovable line.
I walk up to the ambulance.
Grant looks up. He doesn't smile, but the rigid tension in his good shoulder drops slightly.
"Sir," Grant says, his voice raspy.
"You let two men with suppressed weapons get the drop on you," I say, my voice deadpan.
"I was distracted by the four men with automatic rifles at the front entrance," Grant replies smoothly, not missing a beat. "It was a tactical error. It will not happen again."
A dark, exhausted amusement touches the corner of my mouth. "I assume you are aware that Audrey found your backup weapon."
"She is highly observant." Grant shifts his weight on the gurney, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his shoulder. "She also possesses a terrifying lack of hesitation. I told her to point and pull. I did not expect her to actually do it."
"Neither did Preston."
I look at the blood staining Grant’s torn shirt. For six years, this man has stood between me and the worst elements of my father’s empire. He took a bullet tonight because he refused to abandon the perimeter.
"Take a week off, Grant," I say quietly.
"I only require three days for the stitches to set."
"Take a week." I hold his gaze, leaving no room for negotiation. "The holding company is dismantled. Preston is in federal custody. Simon is trying to cut a plea deal, and Sterling secured your whistleblower protections with federal prosecutors this morning. The war is over. There is no perimeter left to guard."
Grant looks at me for a long moment. He understands the implication. Vance Security, as an entity, no longer exists. The job he was hired to do is finished.
"Understood," Grant murmurs. "What will you do now, Malcolm?"
"I am going upstairs," I say, looking back toward the glass doors of the lobby. "I have a fiancée waiting for me."
Grant gives a single, microscopic nod. "Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight, Grant."
I step back, letting the paramedics load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. I watch the vehicle pull out of the alley, its sirens wailing as it heads toward Northwestern Memorial.
I turn around and walk back toward the front of the warehouse.
The street is already beginning to clear. The armored van holding the contractors pulls away. Agent Miller is standing near the back of a black sedan, watching as two officers guide Preston Vance toward the open door.
Preston stops.
He turns his head, his eyes locking onto me across the freezing asphalt.
He doesn't look angry. He looks bewildered. He built his entire life on the absolute certainty that money and power could control any variable. He cannot comprehend how he lost his empire to a woman he considered completely insignificant.
I don't say anything to him. I don't offer a final, dramatic monologue.
I just look at him, my expression entirely blank, and watch the police officers push his head down and shove him into the back of the car.
The door slams shut.
The sedan pulls away from the curb, disappearing into the dark city streets.
