Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Stairwell
“Stay here,” I ordered Rosa, my eyes never leaving the dark opening of the stairwell. “Lock the service door behind me if you hear anything else.”
“Mr. Vance, please,” Rosa whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “Don't go down there. The police—we should call the police.”
“The police are twenty minutes away in this traffic,” I said grimly, flipping the safety off my Sig Sauer. “And whoever took Diana has what's on that memory card.”
I stepped across the threshold into the concrete stairwell. The air here was damp, smelling of old dust and cold iron. The emergency backup lights cast long, distorted shadows down the spiral flight of stairs.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of rubber-soled boots hitting the concrete a floor below echoed up through the concrete shaft. Someone was moving fast, carrying weight.
“Stop right there!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “ NYPD security! Drop whatever you’re carrying!”
I lied about the police, but the authoritative bark made the footsteps hesitate for a fraction of a second.
I took the stairs three at a time, my shoes slapping against the concrete steps as I descended into the gloom. The tactical light cut through the hazy air, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beam.
When I reached the third-floor landing, I caught a glimpse of a dark figure rounding the corner toward the subterranean garage exit. The person was wearing a heavy black utility jacket, the hood pulled low over their head, dragging a large, dark duffel bag across the floor.
“I said stop!”
I lunged around the landing, raising my weapon, but as I rounded the corner, a heavy steel fire extinguisher came flying out of the darkness directly at my head.
Instinct took over. I ducked hard, the metal canister grazing my shoulder with a dull thud before crashing down the concrete stairs behind me.
By the time I recovered my balance and swung my flashlight forward, the heavy metal exit door leading to the underground parking garage was swinging shut with a loud, metallic click.
I sprinted the final flight of stairs, slammed my shoulder against the crash bar, and burst out into the subterranean garage.
The underground lot was cavernous, illuminated only by the flickering amber glow of overhead safety lights. Rows of luxury vehicles—my black Mercedes Maybach, Arthur’s silver Bentley, and half a dozen investor cars—lined the concrete pillars.
And right in the center of the lane, idling with its headlights off, was a matte-black panel van with its sliding side door wide open.
As I raised my weapon, the van’s tires shrieked against the concrete. The vehicle accelerated violently toward the exit ramp, kicking up a cloud of exhaust and tire smoke.
I fired twice, the loud cracks of my 9mm deafening in the enclosed space, blowing out the rear driver’s side tire. The van swerved wildly, metal scraping violently against a concrete pillar, sending a shower of orange sparks flying into the air.
For a second, I thought it was going to flip. But the driver wrestled the steering wheel straight, mashed the gas pedal, and roared up the ramp into the rainy Manhattan night, leaving a shredded rubber tire smoking on the pavement.
I lowered my smoking weapon, my chest heaving as I stared at the empty ramp.
Then, a faint sound caught my attention from behind a nearby concrete pillar.
A muffled sob.
I kept my weapon raised, creeping slowly around the thick concrete support structure, scanning the shadows.
Slumped against the tire of a parked Mercedes was Diana.
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Her expensive evening gown was torn at the shoulder, her hair disheveled, and her wrists bound tightly behind her back with heavy plastic zip-ties. A strip of gray duct tape was pressed firmly across her mouth.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide, glassy, and swimming with genuine terror.
