Shattered Mask

CHAPTER 12

THE VANISHING KING

The pulse of the city felt colder as the clock ticked toward 9:00 PM. 

Two hours had bled away into the dark, and the glittering crowd that had once filled the Rothwell Plaza was now a thin stream of departing luxury. 

Engines purred to life, and the scent of expensive perfume was replaced by the acrid smell of street exhaust.

The Smiths were a haunting sight under the yellow hum of the streetlamps. 

Linda’s legs were cramping, her back stiff against the cold brick of an adjacent building. 

Bernard leaned against a fire hydrant, his phone battery dead, his pride even lower. 

Leslie and Robert stood near the curb, their eyes red-rimmed from the wind, scanning every face that exited the revolving doors.

"Where is he?" Robert croaked, his voice raw. 

"Every guest is leaving. The caterers are packing up. Where is the Heir?"

"He must have left through a private tunnel," Linda whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. 

"Or he is still inside, having a private meeting with the board. He has to come out. A man like that doesn't just vanish."

"Maybe he stayed the night in the penthouse," Leslie suggested, her hope now a fragile, dying thing. 

"Maybe we should come back tomorrow."

"No," Linda snapped. 

"We wait. If we miss him now, we lose everything. This is our last chance to expose that fraud Jack and get our lives back." She said,

But the stream of people dried up. The lights in the grand foyer dimmed, and the heavy silence of a finished event settled over the plaza. The only sound was the distant siren of an ambulance and the flap of a discarded programme blowing across the asphalt.

Finally, the glass doors hissed open one last time.

The Smiths jolted to attention, their hearts hammering against their ribs. This was it. The King was coming.

But it wasn't a King.

Martin Harnes stepped out into the night air, his overcoat draped perfectly over his shoulders, his expression as unreadable as a stone monument. 

Walking half a pace behind him, still dressed in the charcoal chauffeur’s uniform, was Jack.

"There he is," Linda hissed, pointing at Jack. 

"And there is Harnes. The Heir must be right behind them."

They surged toward the sidewalk, reaching the edge of the VIP lane just as Jack reached the black Rolls-Royce. 

Robert opened his mouth to shout, to demand an audience, to scream for the Heir …but the words died in his throat.

Harnes didn't even look at them. He walked past the Smiths as if they were invisible, as if they were nothing more than the cold air he was breathing. His eyes stayed fixed on the car, his mind clearly already on the next day's business.

Jack, however, stopped. He stood by the rear door of the Rolls-Royce, his hand on the silver handle. 

He looked at the four of them … shivering, exhausted, and covered in the dust of the street.

"Still here?" Jack asked. There was no mockery in his voice this time. Only a deep, unsettling boredom.

"Where is he, Jack?" Leslie demanded, stepping forward, her face contorted with desperation. "Where is the Heir? We know you saw him. We know you are hiding him!"

Jack didn't answer. He simply pulled the door open with a smooth, practised motion. He stood aside, waiting for Harnes to enter.

"Mr Harnes," Linda cried out. "Please. We have been waiting for two hours. 

We just want five minutes with the Chairman."

Harnes paused, his foot on the floor of the car. 

He turned his head slowly, his gaze landing on Linda with the clinical coldness of a judge. 

"The Chairman has already left, Mrs Smith. And he has no desire to speak with you. Now, if you will excuse us, we have a very busy morning ahead."

Harnes slid into the plush leather interior, and Jack shut the door with a soft, final clack.

Jack walked around to the driver’s side. 

Before getting in, he paused and looked at Robert. 

"You should probably get home, Robert. I hear the banks don't wait until morning to change the locks."

"You are dead, Jack," Robert screamed as the car began to move. 

"You hear me? You are a dead man."

Jack didn't look back. 

The Rolls-Royce glided out of the plaza, its taillights two red eyes disappearing into the Manhattan traffic.

The Smiths stood in the middle of the empty lane, the silence now absolute. 

They were alone. The King they had been waiting for had never appeared, and the driver they despised was the only one who had been given the keys to the kingdom.

The heavy thud of combat boots on the pavement broke their trance. 

A security patrol … four men in tactical gear with the Rothwell crest on their shoulders … approached them.

"The event is over," the lead guard said, his voice a low rumble. 

"This is private property. You need to leave. Now."

"We are waiting for …," Bernard started. But was not allowed to finish

"You are waiting for nothing," the guard interrupted, stepping into Bernard’s personal space. "Move. Now. Or we will have you removed for trespassing."

He didn't wait for them to agree. 

.

The Smiths walked toward their Mercedes … the car that Robert had boasted about, now looking small and dented under the harsh streetlights.

"It is not over," Linda whispered as they climbed in, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and fear. 

"He is just a driver. He is just a driver who got lucky."

But as Robert pulled the car out of the lot and into the dark, they all looked back at the towering Rothwell building. The top floor was still lit, a single beacon of gold in the night sky.

They knew they were chasing a ghost, a very important one at that, and someone who could change the course of their lives forever.

They drove out of the premises of the tower