Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Service Corridor and the Blade Hidden in Plain Sight
Before I could tighten my grip, Mara twisted her wrist with effortless precision, slipping from my hold like water through fingers. She glided past a knot of champagne-sipping executives and slipped through the heavy velvet curtain masking the service entrance.
I didn't hesitate. I waved off two approaching donors and surged after her, motioning for Finn to secure the main room and cordon off the targets in gray and burgundy.
When I pushed through the swinging doors into the service corridor, the ambient warmth and orchestral music of the ballroom were instantly replaced by the hum of industrial ventilation and the sterile glare of fluorescent lights. The floor was gray concrete, polished smooth.
At the end of the long hallway, twenty yards away, a man in a black waiter’s uniform was standing by the primary circuit breaker box. But he wasn’t carrying a tray or checking wiring. He held a suppressed polymer pistol in his right hand and was reaching for the master power switch with his left.
If the main breaker tripped, the entire Grand Ballroom would plunge into total darkness. In a room filled with panicked, blinded guests, an assassination would take three seconds, and the shooters in gray and burgundy would have an effortless path to execute me and vanish.
Mara didn't yell. She didn't announce her presence.
She kicked off her heels in a single, fluid motion and sprinted barefoot across the concrete with terrifying speed.
The fake waiter heard the faint scuff of her bare soles and turned, raising his weapon.
Mara closed the distance before he could align his sights. She grabbed the barrel with her left hand, forcing it upward just as a muffled thwip sent a round into the acoustic ceiling tile. With her right hand, she delivered a brutal, palm-heel strike to the man’s throat.
He gagged, stumbling backward against the steel breaker box. Mara followed through instantly—a knee to his solar plexus, followed by an elbow across his jaw. The gun clattered to the floor.
The man recovered faster than an ordinary thug. He reached into his waistband and pulled a four-inch ceramic blade, slashing horizontally toward her neck.
My blood turned to ice. "Mara!"
I lunged forward, drawing the small custom automatic concealed beneath my tailored dinner jacket. But Mara didn't need saving. She leaned back just half an inch, letting the lethal blade slice empty air, stepped inside his guard, seized his weapon arm, and threw her entire weight into a shoulder throw.
The assassin crashed hard onto the concrete. Mara planted her foot squarely across his throat, pinning him to the floor, her eyes cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of fear.
I arrived at her side, my gun raised, breathing hard. "Who taught a risk consultant to fight like an elite assassin?"
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She looked up at me, her chest barely heaving, not a single strand of hair out of place.
"I told you, Dante," she whispered, her voice dangerously smooth. "I manage risk. And right now, someone just paid seven figures to make sure you didn't leave this hotel alive."
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