Chapter 5 - THE KNEELING OF THE MISTRESS
The gunshots inside the St. Jude Club tore through the mahogany paneling.
Splinters of antique wood rained down like shrapnel.
Callum hit the carpet instinctively, rolling behind the green felt table.
He reached for the sidearm beneath his armpit.
His holster was empty.
Beckett had lifted his weapon during the confrontation without Callum even feeling the touch.
Beckett didn't flinch as bullets chewed the plaster above his head.
He unholstered two customized black semi-automatics from his leather rig.
He moved with terrifying, fluid speed.
Two shots.
Two falling bodies from the ceiling ropes.
Gideon didn't dive for cover.
He casually slid beneath the heavy steel-reinforced desk, opening his laptop to track the perimeter sensors.
"Sterling's auxiliary unit," Gideon announced calmly over the roar of gunfire.
"Sixteen hostiles on the roof."
"Eight in the service alley."
Piers had already slipped behind the service bar.
He held a handheld radio jammer in his left hand and a short-barreled shotgun in his right.
"They're using encrypted military radios," Piers called out.
He pressed a blue toggle on his device.
A high-pitched acoustic scream blasted through the enemy earpieces.
The mercenary descending the main staircase stumbled, clutching his ears in agony.
Beckett stepped out from behind a pillar and put a single round through his chest.
The firefight lasted exactly ninety seconds.
When the smoke cleared, eleven attackers lay motionless on the Persian carpets.
Five had fled through the back alley, directly into the waiting arms of forty Blackwood enforcers.
Callum slowly pulled himself up from the floor, his black shirt covered in drywall dust and glass shards.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably.
He looked at his three sons.
Not a single scratch on any of them.
They didn't look like men who had just survived an assassination attempt.
They looked like professionals cleaning up an administrative error.
Beckett walked over to the surviving team leader pinned beneath a shattered oak table.
He placed his combat boot on the man's shattered collarbone.
"Who gave you the floor plans?" Beckett asked.
His voice was almost gentle.
The mercenary spat blood onto Beckett's boot.
"The girl," the man wheezed. "The Mercer girl."
"She said... she said the brothers were meeting the old man here."
"She promised us two million from Sterling's treasury to clean out the room."
Gideon closed his laptop with a soft click.
He stood up, adjusting his tie in the shattered wall mirror.
"She's getting desperate," Gideon said.
"Piers, where is Miss Mercer right now?"
Piers checked his phone.
"Penthouse suite, Waldorf Astoria."
"She's packing her Louis Vuitton bags."
"She ordered a private helicopter to Gary Airport for 2:30 AM."
Beckett picked up his trench knife and wiped it clean on the mercenary's jacket.
"Let's go help her pack," Beckett said.
Twenty minutes later, the elevator doors of the Waldorf Astoria penthouse dinged open.
The hallway smelled of burnt ozone and rain.
Inside the two-story suite, clothes, diamond necklaces, and gold bars were scattered across the ivory rugs.
Sloane Mercer was frantically zipping a leather duffel bag.
She held a gold-plated nine-millimeter pistol in her right hand.
"Hurry up, you idiot!" she screamed into her phone.
"Where is the helicopter?"
"The helicopter isn't coming, Sloane."
The voice came from the dark corner of the terrace lounge.
Sloane spun around, raising her gold gun with both hands.
Gideon Voss stepped out of the shadows.
He was holding an umbrella, drops of rain rolling off the black silk.
"Drop the weapon," Gideon said.
"Get back!" Sloane shrieked, backing toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors.
"I'll shoot you! I swear to God I'll blow your head off!"
Behind her, the sliding glass door opened silently.
A giant hand reached through the darkness and clamped down over the slide of her gold pistol.
Beckett twisted her wrist with casual, bone-crushing leverage.
Sloane screamed as the gun clattered to the floor.
Beckett didn't let go of her arm.
He forced her down.
Inch by inch.
Until her knees hit the cold marble floor.
"Let me go!" Sloane sobbed, thrashing violently.
"Callum loves me! He'll kill you for this!"
The front door opened.
Callum walked in.
He looked like an old, broken ghost.
His eyes fell on Sloane kneeling on the floor, her hair wild, tears ruining her makeup.
"Callum!" Sloane cried, reaching out with her free hand.
"Save me! They're crazy! They're trying to take everything!"
Callum stopped five feet away.
He looked at the open duffel bag on the floor.
Inside the bag was Callum's private black ledger, three million in bearer bonds, and a passport issued in the name of Sloane Vance.
Beside the passport was a signed contract with Dante Sterling.
Fifty percent of the Voss port revenues, signed in Sloane's neat cursive hand.
"You were going to let them kill me in that club," Callum whispered.
His voice broke.
"You gave them the floor plans."
"You were using me from the very first night."
Sloane realized the game was over.
Her pathetic tears vanished in an instant.
Her face twisted into a sneer of pure, venomous hatred.
"Of course I used you, you pathetic old fool!" she spat.
"You thought a twenty-four-year-old girl actually wanted to touch your wrinkled skin?"
"You're a weak, vain coward!"
"You betrayed the best woman in Chicago because you couldn't stand that she was smarter than you!"
"And now Dante is going to burn your entire world to the ground!"
Beckett tightened his grip on her wrist until Sloane gasped in pain.
"Shut your mouth," Beckett warned.
"No," Gideon said, raising a hand.
"Let her finish."
Gideon walked over and picked up her phone from the floor.
He dialed a single number and put it on speaker.
A woman's voice answered on the second ring.
Calm.
Regal.
Untouchable.
"Is it done?" Rosalind asked through the phone.
Sloane stared at the phone in terror.
"Mrs. Voss," Sloane whispered, her arrogance evaporating into icy panic.
"Bring her to Blackwood," Rosalind ordered.
May you like
"And bring Callum."
"It's time we settle the ledger of 2004."
