The billionaire told everyone he was flying to Canada.

Elena didn't ask questions. She spun around, dropped to her knees, and shoved the brass key into the lock of the low mahogany credenza. The lock turned with a clean, oiled snick.

Inside sat a heavy, dark-blue lockbox. Elena hauled it out, popped the dual latches, and lifted the lid.

Sitting on a bed of faded red velvet was a snub-nosed .38 Special revolver and a speedloader filled with six brass rounds.

"Load it," Evelyn commanded.

Elena’s hands hovered over the cold steel. "Mrs. Vance, I... I’ve never fired a gun in my life."

"I have," Evelyn said, wheeling her chair closer with her good right arm and kicking with her left foot. "Pick it up and hand it to me. Hurry, girl. My grandson has about five seconds before that sociopath turns his chest into a sieve."

Elena grabbed the revolver. It was shockingly heavy, cold as river stone. She placed it into Evelyn’s liver-spotted right hand. The old woman’s grip didn't waver for a millisecond. She broke the cylinder open, checked the chambers—already loaded with six hollow-point rounds—and snapped it shut with a flick of her wrist that looked sixty years practiced.

"Elevator," Evelyn said. "Now."

They hit the hallway just as another deafening crash echoed down the marble corridor. Victoria and Tyler were moving toward the back stairs—the service staircase that exited right behind the kitchen garden, exactly where the private pedestrian trail led down the canyon.

Elena pushed the wheelchair at a dead sprint down the upper gallery.

They rounded the corner just as Tyler kicked open the fire door leading to the landing. He had the duffel bag slung over his neck, the pistol held low in his right hand. Victoria was right behind him, carrying a secondary canvas tote packed with jewelry boxes.

Tyler stopped. He saw an eighty-two-year-old woman in a wheelchair pushed by a slender Hispanic caregiver in blood-stained scrubs.

A cruel, mocking grin spread across his sweating face. "Get out of the way, granny, or I'll finish what Tori started."

Evelyn raised the .38 Special with both hands, steady as a steel crane.

"You're standing on my carpet with your boots on, young man," Evelyn said.

"Shoot her, Tyler!" Victoria shrieked from behind him, her eyes wild. "She's an old woman, she won't—"

BANG.

The gunshot inside the enclosed hallway was deafening, a physical blow that slapped Elena’s ears until they rang like church bells. Plaster and drywall exploded three inches to the left of Tyler’s ear, showering his baseball cap in white powder.

Tyler gasped, stumbling back against the wall, dropping his pistol onto the carpet in pure shock. Nobody expects an eighty-two-year-old woman in a wheelchair to shoot to kill without a warning speech.

"The next one goes between your nipples," Evelyn said through the haze of gray gunpowder smoke. Her eyes were wide, cold, and dead serious. "Drop the bag, Tyler. Drop it right now, or you're leaving this hallway in a body bag."

Tyler raised both hands, trembling violently. "Don't shoot! I'm dropping it! I'm dropping it!"

He let the duffel slip off his shoulder. It hit the floor with a heavy clatter of gold and platinum.

Victoria looked at Tyler, then at Evelyn, then down at the pistol lying on the carpet between Tyler's feet. Her eyes narrowed into slits of pure, venomous madness.