Chapter 39 - The Shattered Glass
I leaped over the four-foot paddock wall, completely ignoring the race marshals, and caught Mia as she rolled off the high banking onto the flat apron.
Her gloves were smoking, the leather burned down to the skin of her palms. Her face was pale, drenched in sweat, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. But when she saw me, her exhausted face broke into a radiant, incandescent smile that banished every shadow that had hung over our lives for two long years.
"We took it, Dad," she whispered, her head falling against my shoulder. "We took it all."
"You did, baby," I wept openly, holding her tight against my chest as the American flag was draped across her shoulders by Klaus Becker, whose eyes were filled with unashamed tears. "You're the world champion."
High above in the VIP box, the sound of breaking glass sliced through the roar of the celebration.
Every head in the stadium turned upward.
A squad of heavily armed Swiss Federal Police, accompanied by two Interpol agents in tactical vests, had kicked in the double doors of Montgomery’s private suite.
Julian Montgomery stood back against the panoramic glass window, his face pale as death, his immaculate coat disheveled. The digital terminal on his mahogany table was glowing red with terminal margin calls—his offshore accounts wiped out to the last cent by the automated settlement of the betting syndicates upon Mia’s official time verification.
An Interpol officer stepped forward, handcuffs drawn, reciting the red-notice warrant in crisp German.
Montgomery didn't surrender.
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His eyes locked onto Mia through the glass, down on the floor where she sat draped in stars and stripes. The madness that had simmered beneath his refined exterior finally broke completely through. With a savage snarl, Montgomery grabbed a heavy crystal decanter from the bar and hurled it at the leading officer, lunging toward the side service door that led to the arena's external roof catwalks.
"Suspect is fleeing to the roof!" the radio transmission crackled through the arena’s PA system, leaking across the broadcast mics. "Level four alert! Cut the power to the tram lines!"
