Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guests
“How many?” Captain Vance snapped into his shoulder mic, hauling Arthur up by the collar of his shirt.
“At least three vehicles, twelve to fifteen operators,” the voice on the radio crackled through static. “They’re heavily armed and wearing unmarked grey gear. They’ve already neutralized the private security at the gatehouse with suppressed weapons. They’re moving toward the rear service docks!”
Arthur let out a low, bloodied chuckle against the wall. “Did you really think... did you really think I was acting alone, girl? I told you. The Sterling name was just the front door. The investors who funded our expansion don’t let assets change hands without a receipt.”
Charlotte ignored him, sliding the black titanium keycard into her trouser pocket alongside the letter. She looked at Vance. “Where is Victoria?”
“Still in the ballroom with the wedding guests, ma’am,” Vance replied grimly. “If they breach the ballroom, it’s a hostage situation. High-profile dignitaries, foreign ambassadors, city magistrates—it’ll be a massacre if things go south.”
“They aren't here for the guests,” Charlotte said, piecing together the timeline with frightening speed. “They’re here to sanitize this vault and retrieve whatever is inside Suite 1201. Arthur was supposed to destroy the paper trail down here while they extracted the target upstairs.”
She turned toward the blast door. “Vance, take Arthur and secure him in the basement maintenance cage. Take two of your men to reinforce the ballroom exits and keep the guests inside—the thick mahogany doors will hold against light munitions. You and I are going to the twelfth floor.”
“Ma’am, going up into the hotel directly cuts off our evacuation route,” Vance protested.
“I didn't come back to evacuate,” she answered, stepping over the scorched debris. “I came back to take what’s mine.”
They navigated through the maintenance tunnels, bypassing the main elevators which had been grounded by the fire protocol. The service lift, wired directly to an isolated auxiliary line, groaned as it hoisted them upward through the concrete spine of the grand building.
With every floor they passed, the muffled sounds of chaos filtered through the shaft—shouting, glass shattering, and the occasional sharp pop of small arms fire from the lower terraces.
When the lift finally shuddered to a halt at the twelfth floor, the doors parted an inch and jammed. Vance used his combat knife to pry them open, sliding out first with his weapon raised.
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The corridor of the presidential floor was silent, carpeted in plush burgundy velvet under soft sconce lighting. At the far end, the heavy double doors of Suite 1201 were slightly ajar.
On the carpet outside the doorway lay a fresh, dark smear of crimson.
