THE HEIR BEHIND THE CREST

Chapter 14: The Night of the Lion

The Imperial Crest was never meant to sleep, but that night it felt uneasy, like a beast sensing danger in the dark. Rain whispered across the glass dome, wind sighing through the upper floors. Every corridor gleamed with silence. Every camera blinked like a nervous eye.

John Raymond stood in his office, staring out over the city. The storm lights painted the skyline in flashes of silver. Shack stood behind him, speaking softly into a comm device. “All guards are in position. No one gets in or out without clearance.”

“Good,” John said. “Harrison is not the type to wait forever.”

He turned from the window. His suit jacket hung open, his shirt sleeves rolled, the fatigue in his face tempered by cold determination. For days, he had rebuilt order from chaos, only for new cracks to appear. Rita’s alleged betrayal, Rose’s reappearance, the board’s wavering trust — every piece on the board was moving, and the enemy was finally closing in.

Shack ended the call. “Security sweep came back clean. If he’s coming, he’s invisible.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Then he’s already inside.”

On the second floor, the power flickered once, then twice. A guard cursed softly and tapped his radio. “Control, we’ve got a voltage drop in Section B.” No reply came. Static hissed through the speaker. He frowned, stepping into the maintenance corridor.

The lights went out.

For a moment, only darkness and the sound of rain.

Then a shadow moved behind him.

The guard turned too late. A gloved hand struck his neck, and he fell without a sound. The intruder dragged the body into a storage room and shut the door. He wore a black uniform, indistinguishable from hotel staff, and in his ear a small receiver crackled with a familiar voice.

“Clean. Proceed to the server wing,” Harrison’s voice ordered.

The man nodded once and moved.

In the security control room, two technicians stared at the monitors as half the screens went dark.

“Power grid’s dropping again,” one muttered. “We just rebooted those circuits.”

The other leaned closer. “Wait. That’s no fault. Look — camera feeds are looping. Someone’s hijacking the system.”

Before they could react, the door opened. Shack entered with a team of guards, his expression grim. “Seal this room. We have an intruder.”

He activated his headset. “John, it’s starting.”

John’s reply came through the static. “Keep the control room secure. I’ll handle the floors.”

He slipped on his jacket, grabbed the concealed pistol from the drawer, and headed for the elevator.

In the lower wing, Rita sat in a small holding room. Two guards stood outside, their voices muffled through the glass door. The hours had dragged painfully. Her mind raced between anger and despair. She had told the truth, but the truth had not saved her.

A faint buzz came from the corner of the room. She turned toward the small security camera. Its red light flickered irregularly. Then, for a second, it blinked twice — a pattern she recognised.

Morse code.

Harrison inside. Proof in the north wing terminal. Get out now.

Her heart leapt. Only Shack or John could have sent that. She stood, moving quickly to the back of the room. The vent grille above the bench was loose. She climbed onto it, prying it open with trembling fingers. The metal squealed softly, but the guards didn’t notice — one was dozing, the other on his phone.

Rita crawled through the vent, heart hammering. Dust choked the narrow passage. The distant sound of alarms echoed faintly. Somewhere below, the hotel was waking to danger again.

Harrison moved through the sub-level with the ease of a man who had built it himself. His hair was shorter now, his face harder. He carried a silenced pistol and a small black case. Behind him, two of his men followed, their movements efficient, rehearsed.

“The server room is down this corridor,” one said.

“Good,” Harrison replied. “We finish this tonight.”

He reached the control panel beside the door, entered a code only he and one other had ever known, and smiled as the lock clicked open. Inside, the servers hummed faintly, half of them still damaged from the explosion weeks before.

“Copy the backups,” he ordered. “Then burn the rest.”

While the men worked, he placed the black case on the central console and opened it. Inside lay another explosive — smaller, cleaner, remote-detonated. He set the timer but did not start it yet. Not until he saw Raymond fall.

Upstairs, John reached the server wing and paused, scanning the corridor. The air smelled faintly of metal and ozone. His instincts screamed that the enemy was near.

He moved slowly, every step measured, his gun raised. From the far end of the hall came faint footsteps — deliberate, unhurried. He recognised that rhythm even before he saw the silhouette.

“Harrison.”

The older man stepped into view, flanked by his guards. The lights flickered between them, throwing their faces into shifting light and shadow.

“I wondered how long it would take,” John said.

Harrison’s smile was cold. “You rebuilt my hotel with my systems. It wasn’t hard to find the cracks.”

“It was never your hotel,” John said quietly.

Harrison’s eyes glinted. “Then let’s see whose name burns on the ashes this time.”

He lifted his hand slightly. His men raised their weapons.

John fired first.

The corridor erupted in gunfire. Sparks burst from shattered light fixtures. One of Harrison’s guards dropped instantly. The other returned fire, forcing John to dive behind a column. Shards of marble splintered under the bullets.

John rolled, firing again. The second guard fell. Harrison ducked into the server room, shouting, “Finish it!”

John sprinted after him, bursting through the door as Harrison reached for the detonator. They collided, crashing against the console. The device clattered to the floor.

Harrison punched him hard, years of rage behind the blow. “You think you’ve won? You don’t even know what you’ve started!”

John blocked the next strike, driving his elbow into Harrison’s ribs. The older man stumbled, gasping. “You killed my father,” John said. His voice was low, almost shaking. “You destroyed everything he built.”

Harrison laughed hoarsely. “Your father built his empire on lies. I just took what he stole.”

“You took his life,” John said.

The laughter stopped. “No. But I paid for it.”

John’s grip tightened on Harrison’s collar. “What do you mean?”

Harrison smirked, blood on his teeth. “Ask Shack.”

John froze — just long enough for Harrison to grab the detonator.

“Goodbye, Raymond.”

He pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

A faint click echoed, but no explosion. Harrison’s eyes widened in confusion. Then a voice came from behind him.

“Looking for this?”

Rita stood in the doorway, the detonator chip in her hand. She had found the north terminal — and disarmed the device.

John stepped forward, seizing Harrison’s arm and slamming him against the wall. “It’s over.”

But Harrison only smiled again, wild and desperate. “You still don’t get it. You’re fighting ghosts, Raymond. You kill one, three more rises.”

He twisted violently, breaking free, and ran toward the service exit. John chased after him, Rita close behind. They reached the fire stairwell just as Harrison pushed through the door leading to the rooftop.

Rain lashed down in sheets. The city stretched below, lights flickering through the storm. Harrison stumbled to the edge, gun raised.

“Stay back!” he shouted.

John stepped forward slowly. “You’ve already lost.”

“I never lose,” Harrison said. “I just changed the game.”

A flash of lightning illuminated his face — and in that instant, he fired. The bullet grazed John’s shoulder. John staggered, pain searing, but he didn’t fall.

He raised his gun, aimed carefully, and shot once.

The bullet struck Harrison’s hand. The gun flew from his grip, sliding across the wet roof. He cried out, clutching the wound.

“It ends now,” John said.

Harrison’s chest heaved. For a moment, he looked almost human again — broken, trembling, eyes filled with the realisation of defeat. Then his foot slipped on the slick surface. He lurched backwards, arms flailing, and disappeared over the edge.

Rita screamed.

John rushed to the side. Rainwater poured over the railing, but below, there was only darkness and the sound of wind. No body, no movement.

Shack’s voice came through the headset, tense. “John, what happened?”

He stared into the storm. “He’s gone.”

Rita stepped beside him, soaked, breathless. “Do you think he’s dead?”

John didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the abyss below.

Finally, he said softly, “No. Men like him don’t die that easily.”

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the city. Somewhere in the darkness, far below, a shadow moved between the flashing lights.

Harrison West was still alive.

And The Imperial Crest had just survived its longest night — but not its last.