Chapter 9 - The Counter-Strike
I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed the fallen operative’s heavy tactical radio transmitter from his belt, keyed the frequency, and spoke in a low, flat whisper.
“Target is moving toward the west loading dock. Bring the sedan around.”
“Copy that. Moving to intercept at the loading bay exit,” the second operative’s voice crackled back through the earpiece.
I stripped the tactical flashlight and a heavy zip-tie from the unconscious man’s belt, then sprinted silently through the dark maintenance corridors toward the executive elevator bank, which still held emergency battery power.
Hitting the call button, the polished bronze doors slid open immediately. I stepped inside, slammed the button for the forty-fifth floor, and leaned against the brass handrail as the elevator surged upward with smooth, silent speed.
My breathing was heavy, my hands slightly shaking with the delayed adrenaline crash, but my mind was sharper than it had ever been.
David Sterling and his Vanguard goons thought they could terrorize me into submission. They thought a grieving mother and a sidelined wife would simply fold under pressure.
They had severely underestimated who owned the building.
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The elevator dinged softly, and the doors glided open onto the empty, silent executive floor.
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