Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“Stand up, Michael,” Louis said.

Michael did as he was told.

“Michael isn’t my son, Leana,” Louis said in an oddly detached voice. “There was a time when I thought he was, a time when he meant the world to me, but when I found Anne’s journal and read that final entry, I knew what George Redman did to her. I knew how he manipulated my wife.”

He looked across the room at George, who was unmoving. “Michael’s not my son,” he said. “He’s your father’s son. You married your brother.”

Forty floors below, The Hotel Fifth was quietly being surrounded by members of the New York City Police Department, while inside, a special task force led by Lieutenant Vic Greenfield was rapidly combing each room on each floor.

Jack Douglas already had been debriefed by Greenfield, but for security reasons, he wasn’t allowed inside the building. He stood across the street on the sidewalk, watching yet another trio of police cars turn onto 53rd Street and drive without lights to the hotel’s east entrance.

All eighteen hundred guests had been evacuated. Crowds of people were along the sidewalks. The press was there, recording it for the world. Jack heard a faint chopping sound and turned to see a sleek police helicopter moving up Fifth Avenue, toward the swirling lights of The Hotel Fifth.

He felt his stomach tense and his head pound in time with the rapid beating of his heart. It was happening, he thought, but was it happening fast enough?

In Leana’s office, the silence expanded like a balloon.

Spocatti stood at the rear of the room, watching the color drain from Leana Redman’s face. George Redman didn’t deny Ryan’s claim. Neither did Michael. Spocatti watched her lips part and felt a kind of thrill.

George stepped forward. Spocatti gripped his gun and longed to use it.

“This is between you and me, Louis. Nobody else. Why don’t you be a man and let them go?”

Louis pushed Leana forward. He shut the door behind them and started moving across the room, toward Spocatti. “Be a man?” he said. “Is that what you were when you fucked my wife? Is that what you were when you got her pregnant? Were you a man when you loaded that shotgun and killed her?”

“I never touched your wife.”

Incredulous, Louis stopped mid-stride. “Never touched her?” He shoved a finger at Michael. “Then explain him. Explain your goddamn son. You read the portion of Anne’s journal I sent to you. In her own words, she wrote about how you got her pregnant only weeks after I terminated our partnership and bought Pine Gardens on my own.” He looked at Leana. “He was fucking her while he was engaged to your mother.”

Spocatti glanced at his watch. He wanted to be out of there in five. He looked across the room at Amparo Gragera, who was standing beneath one of the illumined Sisley paintings, watching it all go down with interest. He told her to take care of the elevator. He waited for her to leave the room before coming around Leana Redman’s desk and moving in front of the windows that overlooked 53rd Street.

He gazed across to the neighboring building he’d visited with the Realtor earlier that day, raised a hand and then looked down at his chest as a swarm of tiny pinpoints of red light spiraled over his heart.

He nodded at men he couldn't see and the red lasers winked off.

Spocatti knew the risks he’d taken by meeting here tonight. He knew the hotel was crawling with security. But he also never finished any deal without having secured a safety net. The one he had tonight was airtight.

He turned away from the window and waited for someone to speak. If things didn’t happen soon, he would take matters into his own hands.

“So, this is it, Ryan?” George said. “You’re going to kill us with a lobby full of people? Is that the plan?”

Louis shot him a fierce, warning look. He went to Leana’s desk, opened a side drawer and removed the gun he placed there earlier. He pointed it at George. “Yes,” he said. “That’s the plan.”

“And what do you suppose that will solve?”

“Everything,” Louis said. “You ruined my life. You murdered Anne. Did you really think I’d let you get away with it forever? I’ve waited years for this.”

“Anne’s death was an accident,” George said levelly. “You know that as well as I do. I did nothing to Anne. I loved her more than you ever did. Your problem is that you’ve never been able to accept the fact that Anne fell out of love with you and in love with me.”

The words were like a blow to Louis. For an instant, the gun wavered in his hand.

“If you want someone to pay, then I suggest you shoot me and let Leana and Michael go,” George said. “This has nothing to do with them. This is between you and me.”

Louis moved to speak, but then turned and pointed the gun at Leana. Alarmed, she took a step back.

“I know you can't stand your own daugher, George. Still, maybe this will give you an idea of how it feels." He fired the gun.

The sound echoed hollowly in the room. Thunderstruck, George watched Leana stagger back, her eyes wide with horror and surprise. There was a tiny hole in her dress, just to the left of her navel. Leana looked down at the hole and covered it with her hands as blood leaked between her fingers and spilled onto the floor. She looked at her father, then at Louis and Michael, and crumpled to her knees. A rush of air escaped her lips.

Michael ran to her side. He knelt beside her, put his hands around her waist and applied pressure to the wound.

Outside, in the hall, Amparo Gragera was suddenly shouting. There was a rapid exchange of gunfire and she screamed.

Spocatti removed his gun and hurried across the office. He closed the office door, locked it and became aware that his cell phone was ringing. He snatched it from his belt, listened to the frenetic shouting on the other end and turned in disbelief to the windows. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then the police helicopter descended into sight, its blinding spotlights flooding the office.

Spocatti looked into the light and for a moment, he couldn’t see. “Why didn’t you warn me?” he said into the phone.

The machine was hovering just beyond the office windows. Furious, Louis turned to look at Spocatti, but instead came face to face with George Redman as he lunged for the gun in Louis’ hands. George tried to wrench it free, but couldn’t. And so he tackled Louis so hard, the gun slipped from the man’s hands and spun across the floor. With everything he had in him, George kept moving, kept pushing Ryan back until he was mashed against the great panes of glass.

The police were pounding on the office door.

Nerves wired, heart pounding, Spocatti backed away from it. He looked briefly at Leana and Michael, then across the room at George and Louis, who were struggling against the glass, the gun somewhere between them.

He had an impulse to shoot them both, to finish this once and for all, but there was no time. He darted to an area of the office where there were no windows and ripped the cover off a heating duct. He threw it aside just as Ryan’s gun rang out.

Spocatti watched George Redman slump to the carpet, his face caught for an instant in the brilliant glare of the helicopter’s spotlight. Louis shot him in the chest. George fell on his side and lay there, his eyes opened and unseeing.

Ryan pointed the gun at the man’s head. He said something Spocatti didn’t hear and was about to fire when the office door crashed open and the police burst into the room. Their guns were drawn.

“Put the gun down!”

In that split second, Louis made his decision. He fired the gun-and saw the bullet go into the floor beside George Redman’s head. He missed! Missed!

He was about to shoot again when the police peppered his stomach and chest with a flurry of bullets.