Chapter 6 - Blood on the MarbleThe private elevator plunged downward toward the forty-first floor at stomach-churning speed.
The digital floor numbers flickered in amber light: 44… 43… 42… 41.
When the doors slid open, the contrast with the glittering ballroom upstairs was absolute. The forty-first floor was dark, industrial, and silent. Emergency backup lighting cast long, sickly yellow shadows across the concrete pillars and endless rows of humming server racks.
The air smelled of ozone and hot copper.
“Stay behind me,” Preston ordered, drawing a sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his tuxedo jacket with terrifying, fluid ease.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The reality of his world—the violent, blood-soaked foundation beneath the polished glass skyscrapers of Manhattan—rushed over me in an icy wave. This wasn't corporate espionage. This was war.
We crept down the narrow metal aisle between Server Rack A and Server Rack B.
A faint, blue LED light blinked rapidly near the base of the primary terminal.
Preston rounded the corner, his pistol raised.
I peeked over his broad shoulder.
Slumped against the base of the server rack was a man in a tailored charcoal suit. Blood pooled darkly across the imported white marble floor, soaking into the knees of his trousers. His throat had been slit with chilling, surgical precision.
It was Arthur Sterling.
“Damn it,” Preston hissed, lowering his weapon slightly as he stepped forward to check the pulse. “He didn't sell us out. He tried to run with the data, and someone cleaned house before he could reach the helipad.”
“If Sterling is dead…” I whispered, my voice trembling as I stared at the blood, “then who downloaded the files?”
Before Preston could answer, a sharp, metallic clink echoed from the opposite end of the server room—the sound of a heavy fire door latching shut.
Preston didn't hesitate. He spun around, grabbing my hand, and sprinted down the aisle toward the emergency stairwell.
“Run, Paige!” he ordered.
We burst through the heavy steel fire door into the stairwell just as the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of combat boots echoed from the flight above us. Someone was fleeing downward toward the basement loading docks.
“Preston, they’re heading for the underground garage!” I shouted over the ringing in my ears.
“Not if we cut them off through the sub-level utility tunnel,” Preston replied, pulling me toward a narrow maintenance hatch marked with yellow warning stripes.
We scrambled through the hatch into the dimly lit concrete service tunnel that ran beneath Marchetti Industries, the distant hum of subway lines vibrating through the foundation of the city.
Footsteps echoed ahead of us—heavy, frantic, desperate.
Rounding a concrete pillar, a figure in a black hoodie sprinted toward the exterior exit grill. In their hand, they clutched a glowing silver encrypted flash drive—the exact drive containing the core financial records of the Marchetti empire.
Preston didn't aim for the legs. He didn't fire a warning shot.
With terrifying precision, he raised his pistol and fired a single round into the concrete floor three inches in front of the runner’s boots.
BANG!
Sparks flew off the concrete. The runner tripped, sprawling hard across the damp floor, the flash drive flying out of their hand and skidding across the oil-stained pavement.
Preston stood over the fallen figure, kicking the weapon out of their reach before pressing his shoe firmly against their spine.
He reached down, grabbed the hood of the sweatshirt, and yanked it back.
My breath caught in my throat.
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It wasn't a rival syndicate hitman. It wasn't a disgruntled junior accountant.
It was Thomas Vance.
