Chapter 7 - The Safehouse Protocol
The gantry slammed into the alleyway behind the Continental Hotel with a bone-jarring metallic screech that echoed off the brick walls of the loading docks. Before the cables had even finished whipping back and forth above us, Larkin was hauling me to my feet. The silk of my dress was torn at the hem, ruined by grease and soot, and my right heel had snapped clean off during the landing, leaving me unbalanced on one steel-tipped stiletto and one bare foot.
Without a word, Larkin stripped off his expensive, blood-spattered suit jacket and threw it over my shoulders. The heavy wool still held his body heat, smelling faintly of cedarwood and gunsmoke.
"Can you run?" he asked, his eyes scanning the mouth of the alley where a pair of unmarked black SUVs were already tearing around the corner, their tires screaming against the wet asphalt.
"I can kill anyone who tries to stop me," I snapped back, limping deliberately as I kicked off the remaining stiletto, leaving both shoes behind on the concrete. The cold grit of the alley bit into my bare sole, grounding the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
We didn't head for the street. Larkin grabbed my hand—his grip surprisingly firm, calloused in a way a desk-bound executive’s never should have been—and hauled me toward a rusted service hatch set flush into the brick foundation of the hotel. He punched a six-digit code into a concealed digital pad hidden behind a loose drainpipe.
The heavy steel hatch clicked open, revealing a damp, concrete subterranean tunnel smelling of stagnant water and industrial copper.
We scrambled inside just as the heavy thrum of the SUV engines vibrated through the street above. Larkin slammed the hatch shut and threw a heavy deadbolt from the inside, plunging us into pitch blackness.
"Where does this go?" I asked, my voice echoing off the curved concrete walls as I kept my revolver raised, tracking the shadows even though I couldn't see a foot in front of me.
"An old steam utility tunnel," Larkin’s voice came from the darkness beside me, raspy and strained. "Built during the prohibition era. It connects the sub-basement of the Continental straight to the old subway maintenance spurs beneath Grand Central."
A small LED penlight flickered to life in his hand, casting a harsh, pale beam across his face. He looked down at my hand, where my fingers were still clenched around the encrypted flash drive.
"You didn't answer Arthur up there," Larkin said quietly, his eyes reflecting the white light of the torch. "When he said my name in connection with your mother's execution."
"You heard him," I replied, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "He said you signed the order. He said you built your entire career on the ashes of my family."
Larkin didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, old-fashioned brass key, holding it out flat on his palm.
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"Arthur lied about the signature," Larkin said steadily. "The signature was mine, Penelope. But I didn't sign her death warrant. I signed her safe passage."
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