Chapter 6 - The Girl in the Hallway
The fluorescent hum of the apartment corridor seemed to drop an octave as the name echoed off the bare walls.
Marcus Vance.
The same name that had haunted the blacksite operational files in the Colorado canyons. The same man whose disappearance had dragged me back into a world I thought I had successfully left behind.
My hand tightened around the edge of the doorframe until my knuckles turned white. My eyes swept the empty hallway once more, checking the stairwell fire door for any sign of a tail, before I reached out, grabbed the girl by her wrist, and hauled her swiftly inside the apartment, kicking the heavy door shut behind us with a solid, echoing thud.
“Hey—!” Chloe gasped, stumbling against the small entryway table as I slammed the deadbolt home.
“Quiet,” I whispered, my voice sharp and low, instincts honed from decades of service taking over instantly. I pushed the peephole shutter aside and peered out into the corridor. Empty. No trailing footsteps, no shadows against the frosted glass of the adjacent doors.
When I turned back, Chloe was trembling, her back pressed flat against the wall, clutching the manila envelope as if it were a shield. Up close, under the amber light of my entryway, I could see the dark circles under her eyes and the frantic, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
“You’re Elena Bennett,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “Marcus... my uncle Marcus told me if I ever ran out of options, if the men in the grey coats started watching my apartment, I should find you. He said you were the only person in the military who wouldn't take a bribe.”
I stepped closer, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. “How do you know Marcus? And what does my family have to do with any of this?”
May you like
Chloe’s lower lip quivered. She thrust the manila envelope toward me again. “Open it. The files are inside. Your father... Grant Bennett isn't just a retired bureaucrat looking for a real estate handout. He’s been laundering offshore corporate capital for the private defense contractors who engineered the blacksite breach.”
My blood ran cold. The image of my father—petty, arrogant, obsessing over country club status and lakefront deeds—fractured and shattered against the stark reality of the documents waiting in my hand.
