Chapter 5 - The Grand Continental SummitThe Grand Continental Hotel was a relic of Gilded Age opulence—crystal chandeliers, gilded moldings, and marble pillars that stretched toward vaulted ceilings. But tonight, the grand ballroom on the top floor had been stripped of its elegance.
The heavy mahogany doors were guarded by four armed mercenaries wearing heavy body armor.
Inside, Viktor Vance sat at the head of a massive oval conference table. He was a thick-set man with slicked-back gray hair, an expensive silk suit, and cold, reptilian eyes that gleamed with malicious satisfaction. Surrounding him were half a dozen of his top lieutenants, their hands resting casually near their concealed sidearms.
The double doors swung open with a heavy thud.
Marcus Stone walked into the room alone.
He didn't wear an overcoat tonight. Just a tailored black suit, his posture completely relaxed, his stride steady and unhurried as he crossed the polished marble floor toward the table.
Viktor Vance smiled, leaning back in his leather chair. “Marcus. I was wondering when the great king of the North Side would grace us with his presence. Please, sit.”
Marcus didn't sit. He stopped three feet from the table, resting his hands casually in his trouser pockets. “Save the hospitality, Viktor. You have twenty minutes before my men shut down your primary shipping docks in Red Hook. Let’s make this quick.”
Vance’s smile vanished. His eyes narrowed into cold slits. “You arrogant son of a bitch. You walk into my hotel alone, empty-handed, and you think you can dictate terms? You’re holding stolen property belonging to my syndicate. Give me the girl, and give me the ledger, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you walk out of here with your life.”
“You think this is about property?” Marcus asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal whisper. “You sent your men into a civilian bakery. You put your hands on someone under my protection.”
“Protection?” Vance laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “She’s a nobody! A bread-maker! And you’re risking an all-out war over a bakery clerk?”
“She isn’t a clerk, Viktor,” Marcus said coldly. “She’s the only reason you’re still breathing right now. Because if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have bothered negotiating.”
Before Vance could signal his men, the heavy glass windows lining the ballroom shattered in a synchronized cascade of noise.
Flash-bang grenades tumbled through the broken glass frames, detonating with blinding white light and deafening concussive shockwaves.
Bang! Flash!
Panic erupted around the conference table. Vance’s guards scrambled blindly, clutching their eyes and ears as smoke filled the room.
From the shattered windows, black-clad operatives dropped from rappelling lines with military precision, subduing Vance’s guards before they could even draw their weapons.
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And walking through the main double doors, flanked by four armed security specialists, was Chloe Martinez.
She wore a sharp, dark trench coat, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her expression calm, resolute, and ice-cold. In her hands, she carried a secure encrypted laptop linked directly to the federal prosecutor’s office downtown.
