Chapter 7 - Lockdown on the Fortieth Floor
The storm hit Chicago around three in the morning, rattling the triple-paned glass of the high-rise with sheets of freezing rain that blurred the city skyline into a smear of yellow and red lights. I was sitting at the corner of the marble desk, reviewing Jonah's medication logs by the dim glow of a single desk lamp, when the penthouse security system chimed—a low, double-tone ping that didn't sound like a regular visitor.
Jonah woke instantly from his light sleep on the leather sofa, his dark eyes snapping open with absolute clarity. "That's not the lobby buzzer," he said, his voice dropping into an immediate, tactical register. "That's the service elevator override. Only Frankie and corporate security have the code."
Before I could ask a question, the heavy oak door of the office shuddered with a dull, heavy thud. Someone was leaning against it from the outside, or trying to force the electronic latch. Frankie's phone went straight to voicemail when I tried calling him, the network signal suddenly dying as if a local jammer had been activated in the stairwell.
"Get behind the desk," Jonah commanded, reaching for the heavy bronze paperweight next to his whiskey glass with his tattooed hand, his knuckles whitening.
"I'm not hiding while someone tries to kick your door in," I snapped, pulling the heavy canvas tote bag off the floor and unzipping it. I didn't carry weapons, but I carried heavy metal medical shears, extra-strength antiseptic sprays, and a solid steel flashlight that could crack a skull if swung hard enough. I stepped in front of his wheelchair, my gray t-shirt feeling suddenly thin against the draft rolling in from the hallway. "If they want you, they have to go through me first. That's what I'm getting paid for."
Jonah stared at me, a dark, dangerous mixture of fury and disbelief flashing across his face. "You're a nurse, Quinn, not a bodyguard."
"And you're a CEO with a broken back who's about to get ambushed in your own home," I hissed back as a second, harder blow shook the door frame. The electronic lock sparked, emitting a high-pitched whine before the door swung inward with a crash.
A man in a dark suit stepped through the threshold, holding a heavy leather briefcase in one hand and a silenced sidearm in the other. It wasn't Julian from the corporate board; it was someone far more dangerous—a fixer sent to clean up the paperwork before Friday's vote.
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Before the intruder could raise his weapon toward Jonah, I didn't think. I grabbed the heavy glass whiskey bottle sitting on the marble desk and hurled it with every ounce of frustration, exhaustion, and adrenaline I had built up over the last twenty-four hours. It shattered directly against the door frame inches from the man's head, raining amber glass and stinging whiskey across the hardwood.
The distraction was all Jonah needed. With a fierce, guttural growl, he drove his wheelchair forward with terrifying speed, slamming the heavy metal footrests directly into the intruder's shins. The man dropped with a sharp cry of pain, his sidearm skittering across the floor just as Frankie burst through the elevator doors behind him, a heavy service weapon drawn and his face carved from granite.
