Chapter 3 - THE AMBUSH ON THE STAIRCASE
Red strobe lights bathed the ballroom in blinding flashes.
The piercing shriek of the alarm shattered the music.
Screams erupted from the crowd as two hundred guests surged toward the exits.
Champagne flutes shattered on marble.
Vivian dropped her glass, backing away into the panic.
"Father!" Vivian cried out, clutching her skirts.
Harlan didn't look at Vivian.
He didn't look at Delia.
He turned toward the service corridor behind the ice sculpture.
He sprinted into the darkness.
"Stay with me," Casimir’s voice rumbled in Delia’s ear.
His arm locked around her waist.
His grip was immovable, pulling her flush against his side.
"Let me go!" she shouted over the blaring siren.
"He's running! My father is running!"
"He isn't running from the debt, Delia," Casimir said.
"He's running toward the ambush."
Casimir drew a compact black pistol from beneath his arm.
He did not look at the stampeding crowd.
He pushed Delia into the private eastern stairwell.
The concrete steps were dark, illuminated only by flickering battery beacons.
The air smelled of cold dust, machine oil, and cordite.
"Down," he ordered.
"Where are we going?" she gasped, her sensible shoes slipping on the slick treads.
"The underground loading bay."
"My car is there."
A gunshot cracked from the landing below.
BANG.
Concrete chips sprayed across Delia’s hair.
She flinched, her hands flying to her ears.
Casimir shoved her down behind the reinforced steel banister.
His broad frame shielded her completely.
He leaned over the railing and fired twice in rapid succession.
Crack. Crack.
A heavy thud sounded two flights down.
A body collapsed against the metal door.
"Julian Cross's men," Casimir muttered, his breathing steady, rhythmic, terrifyingly calm.
"Cross?" Delia whispered, her chest heaving.
"The rival syndicate on the south docks," Casimir explained.
"Your father didn't just borrow eight hundred thousand from me, Delia."
"He borrowed two million from Cross."
"He promised both of us the same container manifests."
Delia’s head spun.
Two million dollars.
Her father had gambled away an empire while she worried about ninety-dollar printer cartridges.
"Vivian," Delia suddenly breathed.
"She was near the front entrance—"
"Vivian is in no danger," Casimir said cold.
"Why?"
"Because Vivian is the one who called Cross's men forty minutes ago."
Delia stared at him in the red strobe light.
"You're lying."
"Your sister’s sapphire dress wasn't paid for by your father, Delia."
"Julian Cross bought it for her."
"They’ve been sharing a suite at the St. Regis for six months."
The words hit her harder than the bullet that had chipped the stone above her head.
Vivian.
Her sister who complained about chipped polish and wrinkled linen.
Vivian had been trading syndicate secrets while Delia calculated withholdings until midnight.
"Move," Casimir commanded.
He hoisted her to her feet, his fingers gripping her forearm.
They cleared the final flight of stairs.
The heavy steel fire door led into the cavernous loading bay beneath the hotel.
Three black armored SUVs idled in the gloom.
Standing near the center vehicle were four armed men in tactical gear.
One of them turned, raising a suppressed carbine toward the stairwell door.
Casimir did not hesitate.
He pulled Delia behind an industrial trash compactor.
He reached into his pocket and pulled a small steel remote.
May you like
He pressed the red toggle.
Fifty feet away, the fuel tank of a delivery van detonated with a bone-jarring roar.
