Chapter 2 - Darkness in the Penthouse
The glittering chandeliers went pitch black, plunging sixty of New York’s most powerful people into sudden, suffocating shadows. A woman three tables away shrieked, the sound sharp and echoing in the vast space.
“Stay where you are!” I shouted over the rising swell of panic, my instincts kicking into overdrive. “Nobody touch the doors!”
In the pitch black, the sound of scrambling feet, rustling silk, and panicked whispers filled the air. I lunged forward toward where Diana had been standing a second ago, my hands sweeping through empty space. My fingers caught only the soft fabric of an abandoned evening shawl draped over the back of a velvet chair.
She was gone. In the span of three seconds, she had slipped away into the dark.
“Rosa!” I called out, reaching down blindly. “Grab Lily! Get under the heavy oak buffet table now!”
“I’ve got her, sir!” Rosa’s voice cried out from somewhere near the service entrance, followed by the scuffle of shoes and a muffled whimper from the little girl.
I reached inside my jacket, my thumb flicking open the concealment holster beneath my arm. My fingers curled around the grip of my Sig Sauer 9mm. The familiar, cold steel grounded me as the adrenaline surged through my veins.
Click.
The tactical flashlight mounted beneath the barrel clicked on, shooting a blinding beam of white light across the length of the dining room.
The tables were in chaos. Silverware was scattered across the floor, champagne flutes lay shattered in glittering pools of white wine, and the guests were huddled together near the eastern windows, shielding their faces from the sudden beam of light.
Diana’s chair was empty.
Worse still, the heavy service door leading to the private back stairwell—a fire exit that bypassed the elevator security system—was standing wide open, swinging gently on its hinges as a draft of cold air swept in from the stairwell.
“Marcus!” Arthur Sterling’s voice called out from the huddled crowd near the windows. “What the hell is happening? Who turned off the power?”
“It wasn't a power outage,” I barked, keeping my flashlight beam steady as I moved toward the open stairwell door. “The breakers were tripped manually from the utility closet down the hall.”
“Sir!”
It was Rosa. She emerged from the shadows near the service corridor, her face pale, holding Lily tightly against her chest. The little rabbit was still clutched in the child’s small hand.
“What is it, Rosa?” I demanded, not taking my eyes off the dark maw of the stairwell.
“While... while the lights were out,” Rosa stammered, her voice shaking violently, “someone threw something through the service door. It landed right by my feet.”
She held out her hand. Resting on her palm was a small, heavy brass key with a jagged, unfamiliar tooth pattern, attached to a luggage tag bearing a single printed address: Pier 42, Warehouse B.
I stared at the tag. Pier 42 was part of the old shipping docks on the Hudson—shipping docks that belonged to Vantage Logistics, my primary corporate rival, a company currently locked in a bitter, multi-million-dollar proxy war to block my upcoming acquisition.
And Vantage Logistics was currently run by a man I had spent the last five years trying to legally dismantle: Richard Sterling.
Arthur Sterling’s brother.
My head snapped back toward the crowd of guests near the windows. Arthur was standing right there, adjusting his cuffs, his face cast in deep shadow.
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Before I could process the connection, a sharp, metallic clang echoed from deep within the stairwell, followed by the heavy thud of boots running downward toward the ground floor.
Someone was still in the building.
