The Glass Tower Siege
The travel from Covington-Ashby Boardroom, Downtown LA to Ashby Tower Penthouse & Executive Floor consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The echo of Dorian’s choked gasps faded into the oppressive silence of the executive floor. Killian held Grant’s gaze, the older man’s face a mask of cold fury that cracked at the edges. Grant’s eyes flicked to the security camera in the corner, then back to Killian. The calculation was visible—a desperate search for an exit that no longer existed.
“You’re bluffing,” Grant said, but his voice lacked its usual steel.
Killian didn’t bother responding. He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. “Silas. Lock down the floor. No one leaves.”
A beat of static. Then Silas’s voice, tight and clipped. “Sir, we have a problem. The building’s security grid just went dark. I’m looking at a dead console.”
The floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suddenly went black, the city lights outside extinguishing as the electrochromic glass polarized to maximum opacity. A low hum died as the ventilation system shuddered to a halt. Emergency lighting flickered on, casting long, sickly shadows across the marble floor.
Killian’s blood went cold.
Grant’s lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. “You thought I came alone, Ashby? My son’s theatrics were a distraction. While you were busy playing hero, my people were in your server room.” He spread his hands, the gesture almost apologetic. “You’re offline. No cameras. No alarms. No calls for help.”
From the corridor, a crash. Then another. The distinctive sound of a steel door being forced.
Lyra stepped forward, pulling Finn behind her. “Killian.”
He moved without thinking, placing himself between her and the door. “Panic room. Now. The entrance is under the rug in my office.”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“You’re not leaving me. You’re protecting our son.” His voice was low, urgent. “Go. Take Petra. I’ll hold them until Silas can regroup.”
Petra appeared in the doorway of the adjacent office, her face pale but her jaw set. She had a fire extinguisher in her hands, held like a club. “I heard. Lyra, come on.”
Lyra’s eyes met Killian’s. There was no time for arguments. She grabbed Finn’s hand and ran.
Killian turned to face the corridor. The emergency lights cast the hallway in amber gloom. He could hear footsteps now, measured and confident, moving through the outer offices. He counted. Three, maybe four sets of steps. Plus whatever Silas was dealing with on the lower floors.
He moved to his desk, pulled the bottom drawer open. Inside, nestled in foam, was a compact device—a modified tablet hardwired into the building’s secondary systems. The primary grid was compromised, but Killian Ashby had never trusted a single point of failure. This system ran on a separate server, buried in a sub-basement that wasn’t on any blueprint.
The screen flickered to life. Diagnostic icons blazed red. *Security Core: Disabled. Elevators: Locked. Comms: Jammed.* But one icon glowed green. *Drone Bay: Operational.*
He had five security drones. Non-lethal, designed for facility patrol. Tasers, pepper spray dispensers, and surveillance optics. They were meant to deter, not assault. But they were all he had.
A voice echoed from the corridor. “Mr. Ashby. We have your head of security bleeding out in the lobby. Come out, and we’ll let the ambulance in. Drag this out, and he dies.”
Killian’s hand tightened on the tablet. He couldn’t verify the claim, but the timeline made it plausible. Silas was good, but he was one man against a coordinated assault.
He opened the drone control interface. Five green dots appeared on a floorplan of the executive level. He routed them to converge on the main corridor, programming them to move in silence, their rotors spinning at minimum RPM.
Then he stood, walked to the doorway, and stepped into the hall.
The hackers were young—twenties, maybe early thirties. They wore black tactical vests over hoodies, earpieces dangling from their ears. One was setting up a laptop on the reception desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. The other two were covering the corridor, cheap pistols held in awkward grips. Amateurs with hardware, professionals with code.
The one who had spoken—the apparent leader—was older. Mid-forties, lean, with the dead eyes of someone who had done this before. He held a compact submachine gun with practiced ease. “There he is. The man himself.”
Killian stopped ten feet away. “You’re making a mistake. Grant Covington is a bankrupt dinosaur. You’re throwing your futures away for a man who can’t pay a parking ticket.”
The leader laughed. “He paid us upfront. Half a million, wired to offshore accounts before we even touched the building. So, you know, not really worried about his credit score.”
“Then you haven’t checked the news in the last hour.” Killian’s voice was flat. “My team just released the footage of Dorian Covington threatening an eight-year-old boy. By now, it’s everywhere. Federal investigators are going to crawl up Grant’s entire operation. If you’re on his payroll, your names are about to be on a list.”
A flicker of doubt crossed the leader’s face. He glanced at the hacker at the laptop. “Check it.”
The hacker tapped keys, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. After a long moment, he looked up. “He’s not lying. It’s trending. Covington Industries stock is in freefall.”
The leader’s jaw worked. “Doesn’t matter. We hold the building. We have leverage. Grant wants Ashby’s signature on a transfer of ownership. Once we have that, we’re out.”
“And if I refuse?”
The leader raised the submachine gun, pointing it at Killian’s chest. “Then your head of security bleeds out before the ambulance gets here. And we start looking for the woman and the kid.”
Killian held his gaze. He counted the seconds, watching the drone icon on his tablet creep closer. Two more seconds. One.
“You should have checked for backup cameras,” Killian said.
The leader frowned. “What are you talking about?”
The first drone rounded the corner at chest height, its optical sensor glowing red. Before the hacker could react, it discharged a taser dart. Fifty thousand volts hit him square in the chest, and he convulsed, collapsing to the floor in a heap.
The other two hackers spun, raising their pistols. But the drones were already among them—three more, converging from different angles. Pepper spray mist filled the corridor. One hacker screamed, clawing at his eyes. The second fired blindly, the bullet punching through a ceiling tile. A second taser dart took him in the thigh, and he dropped, twitching.
The leader whirled, raising his submachine gun toward the nearest drone. Killian didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the barrel, and shoved it upward. The burst of rounds stitched across the ceiling, raining plaster and dust. The leader tried to bring the stock around, but Killian was already inside his guard, driving an elbow into his throat.
The leader staggered, gasping. Killian wrenched the weapon free and brought the stock across the man’s temple. He went down like a sack of concrete.
Silence, broken only by the whine of the drones’ rotors and the wet breathing of the unconscious men.
Killian stood in the middle of the carnage, the submachine gun hanging from his hand. His chest heaved. The adrenaline was a living thing, clawing at his ribs. He forced it down.
He dropped the weapon, pulled out his phone, and dialed.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance at Ashby Tower. Executive floor. Security officer down, gunshot wound. Suspects subdued. Send police.”
The dispatcher was already issuing orders. Killian hung up and walked to the panic room. The entrance was seamless, a section of the marble floor that swung away to reveal a steel ladder descending into a reinforced bunker. He leaned over.
“It’s clear. You can come up.”
A pause. Then Lyra’s voice, strained but steady. “Finn, stay close to Mama.”
She climbed up first, her face flushed, her hair wild. She looked at the scene—the bodies, the drones, the weapon on the floor—and her eyes went wide. “Killian. Are you hurt?”
“No.” He reached down and lifted Finn up. The boy’s face was pale, but his eyes were bright, tracking the drones with open fascination.
“Dad. Did you do that? With the drones?”
“I had help.” Killian ruffled his hair. “And a lot of luck.”
Petra emerged last, the fire extinguisher still in her grip. She looked at the hackers, then at Killian. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
The elevator chimed. The doors opened to reveal a swarm of police officers, guns drawn. Killian raised his hands, stepping forward.
“I’m Killian Ashby. The suspects are on the floor. Unarmed. My head of security is in the lobby, wounded. I need a medic sent there immediately.”
The lead officer—a captain with a graying beard and weary eyes—lowered his weapon. “We saw the footage. The Covington kid is something else. Is he still here?”
“Dorian is on the floor below, in custody of my security team. Grant Covington is in the east conference room.”
The captain nodded, barking orders into his radio. Officers spread out, securing the floor, cuffing the unconscious hackers. Paramedics rushed past, heading for the lobby.
Killian turned to Lyra. “It’s over.”
She shook her head slowly. “Is it? Grant Covington doesn’t give up. He’ll find another way.”
“He’s out of ways. The footage ends him. Dorian goes to jail. The company is done.”
From across the hall, a commotion. Officers were leading Grant Covington out of the conference room, his hands cuffed behind his back. He looked smaller now, his expensive suit rumpled, his face ashen. He didn’t look at Killian. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy.
As the police cuffed Dorian, Grant Covington collapsed from a heart attack. In the chaos, a forgotten burner phone rang. Lyra answered. A voice said: “This isn’t over, Montclair. There’s a third Covington.” She looked at Killian, her face pale.