He tried voice calls, video calls. Every single one vanished into nothing.
At that moment, Hope's phone sat in a waterproof pouch outside her hotel room. She was on a jet ski, shrieking with joy as she bounced across the waves, oblivious to the barrage of calls.
10:45 a.m.
Mr. Greyson burst through the lobby doors of the office building. The sight that greeted him buckled his knees, and he collapsed into the muddy water.
The water level in the corridor was still climbing. Packing slips from the instruments floated past on the surface.
"Break it down! Break the damn door down!"
His eyes were so bloodshot they looked ready to bleed. He ripped the fire axe from the extinguisher cabinet and, together with a handful of coworkers who'd rushed over, hacked at the security door like a man possessed.
A deafening crash, and the door caved in.
Waist-deep water surged out of the warehouse, carrying a churning mess of waterlogged cardboard and shattered glass. The force knocked Mr. Greyson flat on his back.
When they waded into the depths of the warehouse, he let out a sound that barely qualified as human.