Chapter 20 Rooftop Showdown
# Chapter 20: Rooftop Showdown
"We've got a problem." Agent Lam's voice on the phone was tight with urgency. "Albert Friedrich has escaped federal custody."
The news hit me like a physical blow. After eight months of pretrial detention, countless psychiatric evaluations, and a security protocol specifically designed to prevent this very scenario, Albert had somehow slipped away from the federal medical facility where he'd been held since his arrest.
"How?" I demanded, already moving to secure our apartment, checking windows and locks as Elliot watched with growing alarm.
"Inside help," Lam replied grimly. "A psychiatric nurse who'd been recently assigned to his unit. We found her body in a supply closet, ID and credentials missing. Security footage shows Albert leaving the facility wearing her lab coat and ID badge ninety minutes ago."
"Any indication where he's headed?"
"Nothing concrete, but given his psychological assessments..." She hesitated. "The psychiatrist believes he's likely to seek what he perceives as 'unfinished business.' You and Elliot are at the top of that list."
I ended the call and quickly relayed the information to Elliot, who had already begun gathering our emergency supplies—the go-bags we'd maintained despite months of relative security, containing cash, alternate identification, and basic necessities.
"We need to move," he said, checking the windows again. "This location is compromised."
He was right. Though we'd been careful about our current address, Albert had resources and connections that extended beyond his immediate circle. If he wanted to find us, he likely could.
"Lam is sending a protective detail," I told him, "but they're at least twenty minutes out. We should—"
The apartment's lights suddenly went dark, plunging us into the dim glow of early evening. Not just our apartment—the entire building. Through the windows, I could see neighboring structures still illuminated, meaning this outage was isolated to our building only.
"Not a coincidence," Elliot whispered, moving silently to retrieve the handgun we kept secured in a biometric safe. Neither of us had wanted weapons in our new life, but experience had taught us to prepare for worst-case scenarios.
I grabbed my phone to call Lam back, but the signal had disappeared. "Cell service is down too. He's jamming communications."
We moved efficiently in the darkness, muscle memory from months of contingency planning guiding our actions. Escape route one—the main hallway and elevator—would be too obvious. Route two—the fire escape—too exposed. That left route three—the service corridor connecting to the adjacent building, accessible through a maintenance door near the trash chute.
As we gathered our essentials, a soft sound from the hallway froze us both—the nearly imperceptible click of our front door lock being manipulated. Someone was picking the lock with professional skill, creating almost no sound.
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Elliot gestured toward the bedroom—our agreed-upon defensive position with its adjoining bathroom window providing emergency egress. We moved silently across the apartment, the gun steady in his hand, when a voice stopped us cold.
"I wouldn't bother with the bedroom," Albert Friedrich called conversationally through the door. "The fire escape has been compromised. Quite a fall from the eighth floor."
My blood ran cold at the familiar voice—still cultured, still controlled, but with a new edge of unhinged determination. Albert continued, "I'm coming in now. I suggest you don't do anything rash. I'm not alone, and my associates are positioned to respond to any... resistance."
The lock clicked open, and Albert Friedrich stepped into our apartment, silhouetted against the hallway's emergency lighting. He looked thinner than during his trial appearances, his designer suits replaced by nondescript dark clothing, but his posture still conveyed the arrogant authority that had defined him.
"Cynthia Zhang," he said, addressing me by my real name. "And my disappointing younger son. How domestic you two have become."
Elliot raised the gun, aiming directly at his father's chest. "Don't move."
Albert smiled thinly. "You won't shoot me, Elliot. You've had numerous opportunities over the years and never found the courage. Besides," he gestured casually, "that would prompt an unfortunate response from my associate currently positioned on the building across the street. Excellent sightlines into this apartment, I'm told."
A faint red dot appeared on Elliot's chest—the laser sight from a sniper rifle. I shifted slightly, placing myself partially between Elliot and the window, earning a look of disapproval from Albert.
"Always the protector now, aren't you, Ms. Zhang? Quite a transformation from victim to vigilante. I'd almost admire it if you hadn't destroyed everything I spent decades building."
"What do you want, Albert?" I asked, mind racing through potential scenarios, escape routes, defensive options.
"A conversation," he replied simply. "Followed by a resolution."
"If you're here to kill us, why not just have your sniper do it?" Elliot challenged, gun still raised despite the laser sight on his chest.
Albert sighed as if disappointed by the question. "Because this is personal. Because endings matter. Because I want you both to understand exactly why you're dying and who arranged it." He stepped further into the apartment, closing the door behind him. "Put the gun down, Elliot. Let's be civilized about this."
After a tense moment, Elliot slowly lowered the weapon, placing it on a side table—not surrendering it completely but removing it as an immediate threat. Albert nodded approval.
"Eight months," he said, glancing around our apartment with casual interest. "Eight months of incarceration, psychiatric evaluations, and legal maneuvering. Do you know what that provides? Time to think. To plan. To arrange resources even the federal government can't trace or freeze."
"You won't get away with this," I said, calculating the distance to the gun, to the kitchen knives, to anything that might serve as a weapon. "The FBI already knows you've escaped. They're on their way here now."
"I'm counting on it," Albert replied with disturbing serenity. "But they'll arrive to find a tragic murder-suicide. Elliot, overcome with guilt over his betrayal of family, killed his accomplice before turning the gun on himself. Quite believable given his psychological history."
The calculated nature of the scenario sent chills down my spine. Albert hadn't come in a rage; he'd come with a specific plan to eliminate us while creating a narrative that would preserve what remained of his legacy.
"Why now?" Elliot asked, his voice steady despite the danger. "Your trial is months away. Appeals could take years."
"Because Winton Pierce died this morning," Albert replied, watching our reactions carefully. "Apparent suicide in his cell, though we both know it was nothing of the sort. The network takes care of its own—both rewards and punishments."
The news stunned me. Winton had been under protective custody, supposedly secure while awaiting sentencing after his plea deal. If the network could reach him there...
"With Winton gone," Albert continued, "certain contingencies were activated. My release being one of them. The elimination of remaining threats being another." He smiled coldly. "You should feel honored. The resources deployed to remove you two far exceed standard protocol."
As he spoke, I was acutely aware of the laser sight still trained on Elliot, of the limited options for escape, of the minutes ticking by until Agent Lam's team would arrive—potentially walking into an ambush if Albert had additional "associates" positioned nearby.
"You've lost, Albert," I said, trying to keep him talking while searching for any advantage. "Even if you kill us, the evidence is public. The trials are proceeding. The network is being dismantled piece by piece."
"Portions of the network," he corrected smoothly. "Expendable elements. The core remains intact, despite your best efforts. It survived before I joined it, and it will survive long after I'm gone." He checked his watch casually. "Which brings us to the resolution phase of our meeting. We have approximately seven minutes before federal agents breach this building."
In one fluid motion, he withdrew a syringe from his pocket. "This contains the same insulin formulation used on Lucas. Poetic, don't you think? This time, however, the dosage will be fatal rather than merely incapacitating."
Elliot tensed beside me. "You'd murder your own son? Again?"
"You stopped being my son the moment you betrayed the family," Albert replied coldly. "Though I'm offering you a more merciful end than Ms. Zhang will receive. The sniper across the street has specific instructions regarding her. Multiple wounds, non-fatal initially, designed to ensure she experiences maximum—"
His clinical description of my planned torture was interrupted by a sudden explosive sound from outside—a bright flash followed by the tinkle of broken glass from the window. The laser sight vanished.
Albert's composure cracked momentarily as he realized what had happened—counter-snipers from the FBI had located and neutralized his associate. His seven-minute timeline had been miscalculated.
Elliot seized the momentary distraction, lunging for the gun on the side table. Albert moved with surprising speed for his age, intercepting him and driving the syringe toward his neck. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the coffee table, swinging it at Albert's head, but he ducked, maintaining his grip on Elliot while kicking me backward into the wall.
"Always fighting," Albert snarled, struggling to control Elliot's thrashing form. "Always defying the natural order. Don't you understand? Some people are born to rule, others to serve. The world functions best when everyone accepts their proper place."
The syringe inched closer to Elliot's neck as they grappled. I scrambled to my feet, searching frantically for a weapon. The gun had been knocked under the sofa in the struggle, out of immediate reach.
"Your proper place," Albert continued, his voice strained with effort, "was as my silent, damaged child—a sympathetic prop for the family image. Instead, you chose to become this... betrayer."
Elliot's response was defiant, even as he fought against his father's surprising strength. "I chose to be human. Something you've never understood."
Their struggle carried them across the apartment toward the open kitchen area. I circled behind them, trying to reach the knife block on the counter. Albert saw my intention and shoved Elliot hard into my path, sending us both crashing into the refrigerator.
As we disentangled ourselves, Albert retrieved the gun from under the sofa, pointing it at us with one hand while holding the syringe ready with the other.
"Enough of this," he said, breathing heavily. "New plan. Ms. Zhang dies first, from a bullet rather than the sniper's more elaborate approach. Then Elliot receives his insulin overdose. The narrative remains intact—he killed her, then himself in remorse."
A sudden pounding at the apartment door indicated the arrival of Agent Lam's team. "FBI! Open up!"
Albert smiled grimly. "Right on schedule, though slightly earlier than anticipated. It seems we need to accelerate our conclusion."
He aimed the gun at my chest, finger tightening on the trigger. In that moment, Elliot did something I'll never forget—he threw himself forward, not to attack his father but to shield me with his body.
The gun fired just as the FBI breached the door, the sound deafening in the confined space. I felt Elliot's body jerk against mine, heard his sharp intake of breath. As agents poured into the apartment shouting commands, Albert turned the gun toward them, ensuring the response that followed—multiple agents firing simultaneously, dropping him where he stood.
The chaos of the next few moments seemed to unfold in slow motion—agents securing the apartment, paramedics rushing in, Agent Lam kneeling beside us where we had fallen to the floor.
"Elliot," I gasped, frantically checking for the bullet wound I was certain he'd received. "Where are you hit?"
To my confusion, he shook his head, running his hands over his torso. "I don't think I am."
A paramedic confirmed moments later—no gunshot wound. Somehow, Albert's shot had missed despite the point-blank range. It seemed impossible until Agent Lam directed our attention to the shattered remains of my mother's locket and Madeline's jade pendant on the floor beside us—the bullet had struck the jewelry hanging between us, deflected just enough to miss both our bodies.
"The mothers protected their children," Elliot whispered, touching the fragments with reverent disbelief.
Across the room, other paramedics worked on Albert Friedrich, but their grim expressions told us everything we needed to know. The man who had terrorized so many for so long was finally, irrevocably gone—not through the justice system as we'd planned, but through his own final act of violence.
Later, after the apartment had been processed as a crime scene and we had been relocated to a secure FBI facility, Agent Lam provided the full context of what had happened.
"Winton Pierce's death was definitely arranged by remaining network elements," she confirmed. "And Albert's escape was part of a coordinated effort to eliminate key witnesses before the main trials begin next month."
"How did you find us so quickly?" I asked. "We were told your team was twenty minutes out when Albert arrived."
"That was deliberate misinformation," she explained. "We've had a protective detail on your building since Winton's death was confirmed, and counter-snipers positioned on adjacent rooftops. When Albert's associate was spotted taking position, we mobilized immediately."
The revelation that we had been under surveillance without our knowledge was both disturbing and reassuring. The FBI had anticipated the network's move and positioned assets to counter it—evidence that law enforcement was finally taking the threat seriously.
"What happens now?" Elliot asked, still visibly processing his father's death and his own narrow escape.
"Now we accelerate the remaining prosecutions," Lam replied. "Albert's escape attempt and Winton's murder demonstrate that the network is still operational despite our progress. We need to move faster."
In the days that followed, we learned more about the circumstances of Winton's death—found hanging in his cell in an apparent suicide that autopsy results later confirmed was actually murder. The method was sophisticated, designed to bypass prison security protocols, suggesting high-level inside assistance.
More disturbing were the documents found in Albert's temporary hideout—lists of targets for elimination, with Elliot and me at the top, followed by key witnesses, prosecutors, and even judges involved in the network cases. The scope of the planned operation indicated resources far beyond what a detained billionaire should have been able to access.
"They're scared," Agent Lam observed during one of our debriefing sessions. "The network has operated with impunity for decades. Now that it's exposed, the remaining members are willing to take extreme measures to prevent total collapse."
Two weeks after Albert's death, I stood on the rooftop garden of our new secure residence—a property owned by the FBI, used for protected witnesses in high-profile cases. The Manhattan skyline spread before me, lights twinkling in the evening darkness, the city continuing its rhythms despite the dramatic events that had reshaped my life.
Elliot joined me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Agent Lam just called. They've identified three more judges from the handbook. Arrests scheduled for tomorrow morning."
I nodded, feeling the weight of what we had set in motion. "And the investigation into who helped Albert escape?"
"Ongoing. They've identified the nurse's killer—a former military contractor with ties to several network operations. He was found dead in New Jersey this morning. They're eliminating their own loose ends."
The clinical discussion of death and criminality had become our normal—a shared language born of our unique experiences. Yet beneath it, something else was growing—a tentative hope for what might exist beyond this chapter of our lives.
"I've been thinking," Elliot said, his voice softer now. "After the main trials conclude. After we've done everything we can to ensure justice. What if we disappeared for a while?"
"Disappeared?" I turned to face him, curious.
"Not forever. Just... time away from all this. Somewhere remote. Somewhere to remember who we are beyond victims and witnesses and avengers." He hesitated, unusually uncertain. "Somewhere to discover if what's between us is real or just circumstantial."
The suggestion touched something deep within me—a longing for normalcy I'd barely allowed myself to acknowledge. For three years as Claire Fontaine and nearly a year as a key witness in the Albert investigation, I had defined myself entirely by my mission. The possibility of identity beyond that mission was both terrifying and enticing.
"Where would we go?" I asked, not rejecting the idea.
"I was thinking New Zealand. Remote enough to be safe, connected enough to stay informed. A small house overlooking the ocean, perhaps." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I could teach piano to local children. You could write—your experiences, others' stories. Things that need witnessing."
The image he painted was seductive in its simplicity—a life defined by creation rather than destruction, by building rather than dismantling.
"We'd need new names," I mused, allowing myself to consider the possibility. "New identities."
"We're good at that," he reminded me, his hand finding mine in the darkness. "And eventually, when it's safe, we could return. Continue the work with the FBI or victim advocacy. But from a place of healing rather than woundedness."
As we stood together overlooking the city that had witnessed both our worst traumas and greatest triumphs, I felt something shift within me—the first genuine consideration of a future not defined by the past. Not an escape from responsibility, but a necessary pause to ensure we could continue the work sustainably.
"New Zealand," I repeated softly, testing the idea. "After the trials."
Elliot squeezed my hand gently. "After the trials."
Below us, the city continued its endless motion—people living, loving, struggling, surviving. Somewhere in that vast landscape, other victims of the network were finding their own paths toward healing. Other investigators were building cases against remaining members. The work would continue with or without our constant presence.
Perhaps our greatest contribution now was not martyrdom but survival—showing that even after the darkest experiences, life could be reclaimed, reshaped, renewed. Not erasing the scars, but carrying them forward into something meaningful.
As we descended from the rooftop, leaving behind the dramatic setting of what could have been our final confrontation with Albert Friedrich, I felt a curious lightness. Not completion or closure—those concepts seemed increasingly simplistic in the face of complex trauma—but possibility. The possibility of identity beyond vengeance. Of connection beyond shared pain. Of future beyond past.
Whatever came next—whether continued testimony in the network trials or eventual retreat to New Zealand shores—we would face it neither as victim nor avenger, but as survivors who had reclaimed the right to write our own stories.
And that, perhaps, was the most powerful revenge of all.
