“Not yet,” Linda said, checking her watch. “But the **Sterling Foundation Gala** is in two hours. By the time I’m accepting my ‘Philanthropist of the Year’ award, your father will have officially passed away in a tragic, solitary accident at a remote cabin in the woods. And you? You’ll be found in this hotel room, a tragic victim of an overdose. A sad, predictable end for a disgraced felon.”
She turned to Vance. “Clean this up. I have a speech to give.”
Linda walked out, the click of her heels sounding like a countdown.
Vance looked at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He pulled a small glass vial and a syringe from his pocket. “Nothing personal, kid. You’re just bad for business.”
As he approached, I felt the rage I had suppressed for three years boil over. I wasn’t the naive kid anymore. Prison had taught me one thing: the man who wins isn’t the strongest, it’s the one who’s willing to do what the other guy won’t.
“The big one that got away,” I muttered.
“What?” Vance asked, pausing.
“My dad’s letter. He said the big fish didn’t get away. He was just waiting for the right bait.”
Vance frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The chair, Vance. Look at the chair.”
Vance looked down. In the dim light, he hadn’t noticed that the chair wasn’t just old furniture. It was bolted to the floor, and a thin, copper wire ran from the base of the legs into the carpet.
I shifted my weight, pressing a small, concealed button on the underside of the armrest—a trigger my father had built into this “safe house” years ago.
The room didn’t explode. But the heavy steel door of the room slammed shut, and the magnetic locks engaged with a heavy *thud*. At the same moment, a high-pitched alarm began to wail, and a voice—*my father’s voice*—began to broadcast through the hotel’s PA system.
