The lights went out, plunging the elevator into darkness. The red emergency light bathed the small space in a bloody glow.
"Sir!" Arthur grabbed the handrail, his knuckles white.
Kevan's instincts kicked in. He didn't waste a second on panic. He immediately pressed the emergency call button-no response. He tried the intercom-dead silence.
A violent jolt shook the car. Then a sound-metal snapping, like a gunshot.
The elevator dropped.
It wasn't a smooth descent. It was a free fall. Arthur screamed, his stomach lurching into his throat.
Kevan grabbed the railing with one hand and shoved Arthur against the wall. "Bend your knees! Hold the rail!"
The floor numbers were a blur. 40... 30... 20...
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. She was right. The ring. The heights.
Kevan's mind was ice. He thought of the cables. This was a top-of-the-line system. Cables didn't just snap.
10... 9... 8...
Kevan braced himself, his muscles locked.
A deafening screech filled the shaft as the emergency brakes engaged. Metal ground against metal. The elevator lurched violently, throwing them against the walls like rag dolls.
Kevan hit his head on the panel, a hot rush of blood streaming down his forehead. Arthur collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.
The car stopped, swaying sickeningly between the third and fourth floors.
Sirens wailed outside. Voices shouted from above and below.
Kevan wiped the blood from his eyes, his chest heaving. He looked at the severed cables above them. Seven out of eight had been cut clean through. The eighth had snapped under the strain.
This wasn't an accident. It was a hit.
And his wife-the woman he had dismissed as a crazy, broke gold-digger-had predicted it down to the detail. Heights. Falling.
Who the hell was Iona Sanders?
