Chapter 6 - THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
By 10:00 p.m., the tension inside the Grand Imperial ballroom had reached a boiling point.
Preston Hail had excused himself three times to make frantic phone calls from the terrace, his voice rising in panic as his corporate partners confirmed what Ambrose had claimed: the state attorney had indeed begun issuing subpoenas for Hail's real estate firm.
Karen sat beside Ambrose, feeling a calm certainty she had never known. For three hours, she had watched city council members, judges, and business owners walk up to their table, pretending to offer congratulations while secretly attempting to gauge how deeply Ambrose was tied to the Alder Street redevelopment.
At 10:30, Marco walked into the ballroom, making his way quickly to Ambrose’s side. He bent down and whispered three sentences into Calvano's ear.
Ambrose’s expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly around his walking stick.
"Excuse me for a moment, Karen," Ambrose said softly, turning to her. "I have a small matter to settle on the north terrace. Stay here with Marco's men."
"Is there trouble?" Karen asked, her eyes searching his face.
"Nothing I cannot handle," Ambrose assured her. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against her hair. "I will be back before the final dance."
He stood up, adjusted his coat, and walked toward the side exit leading to the hotel's private gardens, accompanied by two of his top guards.
Karen watched him leave, a strange, persistent dread settling in the pit of her stomach.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Preston Hail was no longer at his table. Neither was his wife.
Karen looked toward the terrace doors. Through the heavy velvet curtains, she noticed a faint flicker of light—not the steady glow of garden lanterns, but the sudden, sharp burst of a flash-fire, followed by the muffled sound of a glass door slamming shut.
She stood up.
"Miss Ashby," one of Ambrose's remaining guards said, stepping forward. "Mr. Calvano asked you to wait here."
"Something is wrong," Karen said firmly. She didn't ask for permission; she gathered the heavy emerald skirt in her hand and walked directly toward the terrace entrance.
The guards followed her closely as she pushed through the heavy glass doors into the cold night air.
The north terrace was empty, wet with rain, and illuminated only by the faint light coming from the ballroom windows.
At the far end of the terrace, near the stone balustrade overlooking the river, stood Preston Hail.
He was holding an old petrol lantern in one hand and a small black electronic device in the other. Standing twenty feet away from him, trapped inside the arched stone gazebo at the edge of the gardens, was Ambrose Calvano.
The entrance to the gazebo was ablaze with a wall of thick, orange fire. Someone had poured accelerator across the dry wooden beams surrounding the structure and ignited it.
"Calvano!" Hail screamed, his voice wild, unhinged, and dripping with manic desperation. "You thought you could destroy me? You thought you could take my properties and ruin my family with your legal documents?"
Ambrose stood inside the burning gazebo, completely calm, holding his coat over his mouth to filter the rising smoke. His two guards were attempting to kick through the iron lattice at the back of the structure, but the heavy frame was bolted into the stone cliff face.
"Put the controller down, Preston," Ambrose called out, his voice surprisingly steady despite the roaring flames. "You are ending your life for a block of real estate."
"It's not just real estate!" Hail shrieked, raising the black device in his hand. "It's my legacy! The entire east side was supposed to be named after my family! If I am going to prison, you are dying in a fire tonight!"
He squeezed the remote control. A loud, metallic click echoed from the basement beams beneath the gazebo—an industrial gas valve hummed open, feeding high-pressure propane directly into the rising flames.
The fire exploded upward, turning the gazebo into a roaring inferno.
Ambrose stumbled back as the intense heat scorched his face, trapping him against the rear railing with no way out.
The guards at the main terrace froze in horror, unable to approach the wall of fire without suffering catastrophic burns.
Karen stepped forward onto the wet stone terrace.
She looked at the wall of roaring, orange flame.
She looked at the thick smoke billowing into the night sky.
And suddenly, she was seven years old again.
She smelled the burning wood of her childhood home; she heard the shrieks of her mother; she felt the unbearable, blistering heat melting the skin on the left side of her face.
Panic seized her heart, terrifying and absolute, threatening to drag her down onto her knees.
No, her inner voice screamed, sharp and clear above the memory. Not again. I am not seven years old anymore.
Karen looked at Preston Hail. He was laughing maniacally, staring at the flames, completely oblivious to her presence.
Karen looked around the terrace. Near the wall stood an iron catering trolley holding a massive copper ice basin filled with three hundred pounds of melted ice, water, and heavy linen tablecloths.
Without a second thought, Karen sprinted across the wet stone.
She grabbed the heavy linen tablecloths soaking in the ice water, pulled three of them from the basin, and wrapped them entirely around her body, covering her hair, her arms, and the emerald gown.
"Miss Ashby! No!" Marco's guard screamed, lunging forward to stop her.
Karen didn't hesitate.
She ran directly toward the roaring inferno.
She grabbed the heavy iron catering cart, pushed it with every ounce of strength in her legs, and slammed it directly into the side of the burning wooden trellis framing the entrance.
The heavy copper basin tipped over, dumping three hundred pounds of freezing ice water directly onto the base of the fire.
CRASH!
A massive cloud of white steam exploded into the air, hissingly blindingly as the primary flames at the threshold died down for five precious seconds.
Karen didn't pause. Wrapped in the soaking, ice-cold tablecloths, she stepped directly through the steam and fire into the gazebo.
"Ambrose!" she screamed through the smoke.
Ambrose emerged through the white haze, his coat scorched, his eyes wide with utter shock as he saw her standing in the center of the burning room.
"Karen! Are you insane?!" he roared, grabbing her by her shoulders.
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"Run!" she commanded, grabbing his hand with a grip as hard as iron.
Together, they sprinted back through the dying gap in the flames, bursting out onto the wet stone terrace just as the wooden roof of the gazebo collapsed inward with a deafening roar of sparks and ash.
