Page 133 of Fallen Empire
45 Park Place.
Switching to the maps tab, I adjusted the settings to walking directions and zoomed in, tracking the dotted blue line from my location to hers. Seven blocks. I memorized every turn, every street name, committing them to memory like a countdown. I dropped the phone beside me.
Then I moved. Slowly, quietly. I slipped off the bed and padded to the closet. Please, God, let this Penthouse be built like mine.
I pushed the clothes aside, brushing my fingers against the back wall. Nothing. Then, an indentation. Barely there. I ran my hand across the groove until—
Click.
A faint shift. A square portion pushed slightly outward. I fumbled for the edge, nails scraping until I found a grip, and pulled.
The panel opened to reveal a hidden safe, sleek and dark, flush with the wall. Expensive. Well-secured. And now, wide open.
Inside: a Glock, loaded magazines, stacks of cash, two passports, and a watch I didn’t recognize.
Two passports.Why two?
I picked up the first one, flipping it open. Jaxson. His photo. His name. His cover identity.
Then I opened the second.
It was me.
Only, my last name had been changed.
Westbrook.
It should infuriate me that he’d forged an official document with a name that wasn’t mine, but somehow the identity settled something deep inside of me.
I glanced back toward the bedroom. Silence. I stared for a moment longer before returning everything to its place.But then I paused. Instead of shutting the safe completely, pretending I’d never intruded, I reached for the gun.
I pushed the button and checked the magazine. Full. My father made sure I knew how to handle a weapon—whether I knew the full truth of him or not. And I wasn’t scared to use it now.
God, I hope they forgive me. Thatheforgives me.
I spun toward the dresser Millie had opened earlier and yanked out a pair of jeans, shimmying them on despite the sharp pain shooting up my thigh. The gun slid easily into the back of the waistband. I fixed the closet quickly, restoring everything to how I’d found it.
Only… there was no exit. No escape.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I looked around the space, trying to remember the mirrored layout of my own unit. In mine, the hidden passage was just past the shoes.
I turned toward Jaxson’s towering shoe display. A wall-to-ceiling fortress of solid wood and designer leather. I shoved at it from one side. Nothing. Tried the other. Still nothing.
Dropping to my knees sent a sharp pang up my side, but I gritted through it and crawled beneath the row of neatly hanging pants. Fabric brushed against my shoulder as I searched blindly. Then I looked up.
There it was.
A keypad.
I hesitated, fingers hovering. Then I punched in the numbers—1-2-8-0.
The wood split. A narrow seam opened, just enough for me to squeeze through. Inside was a secure panic room. Metal-lined walls, rows of high-powered rifles, ammo, and surveillance monitors glowing in the dark.
And a door.
A back stairwell.
