Page 158 of Under Construction

"Dennis." Jessica catches his arm. When he turns, her eyes are fierce. "Bring my son home."

He nods once, determined. "I will."

The drive back to Sacramento passes in tense silence. Isabelle speaks rapidly into her phone, coordinating with her team, while Dennis mentally reviews the building layout. He knows every corner, every service corridor. He's lived there long enough that his presence won't even be noticed.

They never imagined the spoiled heir they dismissed would be their downfall.

"Ready?" Isabelle pulls up to the curb.

Dennis checks his phone one last time, making sure it's on silent. "Chris's father thinks he knows that building better than anyone." His hand closes around the door handle. "Let's prove him wrong."

The Oakview Heights lobby speaks in hushed tones of old money—Italian travertine and Brazilian rosewood, the kind of luxury for those who can afford to appear understated.

Dennis nods to the day guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Just another rich resident coming home during business hours.

Perfect. Dennis moves to the concierge desk, making small talk about a package he’s expecting while his eyes catch themaintenance key rack reflected in the polished stone behind the counter.

He’s always noticed the cameras’ blind spots—an architect’s instinct at work, honed from countless times walking in and out of the building. Three casual steps to the left put him exactly where he needs to be.

As the guard rummages around under the desk for delivered packages, Dennis’s hand drops casually to his side. "Actually," he says, checking his phone, "I think they might have delivered to my office instead." His fingers close around the key he needs as he turns, the motion seamless.

The elevator feels like it takes forever. Dennis's heart pounds against his ribs, anxiety crawling under his skin. He's trained for combat, sure, but never like this. Never outside of the cage ordojangwith real guns and real stakes and his—Chris’s—life in the balance.

At the twentieth floor, he exits—two floors below where they're holding Chris. He takes the service stairs the rest of the way, footsteps silent on concrete.

Voices drift from around the corner.

Dennis peers past the edge. Two guards flank unit 2201, dressed in dark tactical pants and fitted jackets—private security trying to look professional. The shorter one scrolls his phone while his partner shifts, jacket falling open to reveal the holster at his hip. Both armed. Both bored.

The maintenance room lock clicks open. Inside, Dennis finds the electrical panel by touch. His fingers trace the circuit labels until—there. 2201. His hands shake slightly as he locates the unit's dedicated breaker. One deep breath. Then another. He can do this. He throws the switch.

"Lights are out," one guard calls. "Check the breaker room?"

"On it."

Footsteps approach. Dennis presses against the wall, pulse thundering so loud he's sure they'll hear it. All his training, all those careful movements practiced in safe spaces—now it has to work. It has to. The moment the first guard steps through, Dennis drives his elbow up into his throat. As he staggers, gagging, Dennis hooks his ankle and drops him face-first into the concrete floor.

The second guard appears in the doorway, gun already raising. Dennis's palm strikes upward, smashing the weapon into the guard's nose. Blood sprays. Before he can recover, Dennis grabs his wrist, twisting until the gun clatters free. The guard throws a wild punch that Dennis slips past, countering with a knee to the solar plexus that doubles him over.

"Sorry about this," Dennis mutters, then drives his elbow down between the guard's shoulder blades. The man crumples beside his partner.

Dennis retrieves the guns. His hands are steady now as he ejects the magazines and clears the chambers—just like Isabelle drilled him during the drive over, his fingers finding the releases without thought. He'd practiced until the movements felt natural, knowing he'd only get one chance to do this right.

The pieces clatter into separate corners as he disassembles all but one. The weight of the remaining gun feels foreign in his hand, but he slips it into his waistband anyway. Bluff or not, it might buy him a second if things go south.

He secures the guards’ wrists with reinforced zip cuffs, borrowed from Isabelle's supplies. After a moment's thought, he resets the breaker. No need to alert the whole building.

The electronic lock’s emergency release gleams green in the dark, still tripped from the breaker. Dennis pushes the door open, every nerve screaming.

A small stream of daylight spills through a gap in the curtain, catching on Chris's figure slumped in an armchair. His head hangs forward, chin to chest.

"Chris!" Dennis is at his side in two steps, fingers pressed to his throat. The pulse there beats steady.

Chris's eyes flutter. "Princess...?" His voice comes thick, drugged. "You shouldn'... be here..."

“Like hell I shouldn’t." Dennis pulls a small blade from his jacket pocket and flips it open. The edge glints in the dim light as he wedges it under the zip ties binding Chris’s wrists. He saws carefully, his free hand steadying Chris’s arm. The sharp plastic gives way with a harsh snap, leaving red marks on Chris’s skin. "Can you walk?"

"Mmmaybe." Chris's head rolls against Dennis's shoulder. "They shot me up with... something..."

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