Chapter 8: The Checkmate
Chapter 8: The Checkmate
Victor stared at me, the detonator trembling in his grip. Sweat poured down his face. "Get back! I'll do it!"
"No, you won't," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Because deep down, you are terrified. You’ve always been terrified of losing control. And right now, you have absolutely zero."
Sirens suddenly wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second. Red and blue lights began to flash through the grimy windows of the warehouse. The FBI had arrived.
Victor looked at the windows, then back at me, the reality of his situation crashing down on him. The bravado evaporated. With a pathetic whimper, he dropped the plastic detonator—which I suspected was nothing more than a garage door opener—and fell to his knees.
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It was a perfect mirror image of the night at the gala, only this time, there was no elite crowd to impress. There was only the cold, hard floor of reality.
Damian lowered his weapon and pulled me into his side, kissing the top of my head. We didn't say a word as heavily armed agents swarmed the building, tackling Victor to the ground and slapping handcuffs on his wrists. He didn't even fight back. His spirit was finally, truly broken.
