Chapter 7
The corridor was fifty yards of unlit mahogany and shadowed alcoves.
Truett kept Garran two paces ahead of him, using the younger man’s broad silhouette to obscure his own center mass while keeping the suppressed submachine gun tight against his right hip.
"Slow down," Truett whispered, his thumb resting on the weapon’s fire selector. "Step on the runner. Not the bare wood."
Garran’s patent shoes trembled on the crimson carpet, his breathing coming in ragged, terrified gasps. "Truett, I see flashlights... at the end of the hall. They're by the linen closet."
"I see them," Truett replied.
Two beams of white tactical light cut through the gloom near the service entrance. The beams swept across the ceiling, then snapped downward, locking directly onto Garran’s disheveled tuxedo.
"Freeze!" a voice barked from the shadows—a flat, northern accent with the hard edge of professional contract muscle. "Hands where we can see them! Drop to your knees!"
Garran instantly threw his hands into the air, falling forward onto his knees with a pathetic shriek. "Don't shoot! I'm Garran Vance! I'm the one who set up the deal! Don't shoot me!"
His sudden collapse cleared Truett’s field of fire completely.
Truett did not hesitate. The suppressed submachine gun coughed three times in rapid, rhythmic bursts.
The first two rounds caught the lead operative in the throat and upper chest, pitching him backward into the linen closet door. The second man tried to pivot behind an antique marble bust, but Truett’s third burst tore through the plaster wall beside him, severing an artery in his thigh. The operative collapsed to the floor with a muffled grunt of agony, dropping his weapon.
Truett advanced down the hallway with terrifying, predatory speed.
Before the wounded man could reach for his sidearm, Truett’s polished leather shoe came down with crushing force across the man’s wrist, pinning the hand to the floor. Truett shoved the barrel of his weapon against the man’s forehead.
"Who sent you?" Truett asked.
The wounded man looked up through the darkness, blood bubbling from his mouth, his eyes wide with the realization of who was standing over him. "You’re... Hawthorne..."
"Who sent you?" Truett repeated, his tone entirely devoid of emotion.
"Cross..." the man gasped, his fingers spasming against the carpet. "Viktor Cross... he’s already in the main ballroom... he’s rounding up the family..."
Truett pulled the trigger once.
The soft thwip of the suppressed round ended the man’s words instantly.
Behind him, Garran scrambled forward on his hands and knees, staring at the bodies in horror. "Viktor Cross? Oh sweet God... Cross came in person? He was supposed to stay in Montreal!"
Truett turned, looking down at Garran with pure, unadulterated contempt.
"You invited a wolf into your sheepfold, Garran, and you’re surprised he brought his pack?" Truett said.
He bent down, pulled the fallen operative’s tactical radio from his vest, and clicked the receiver onto the open channel.
A smooth, cultured voice with a faint European cadence drifted through the small speaker, cutting through the static.
"Team Two, report. Have you secured the east wing? Is the child in custody?"
Truett brought the radio to his lips. He pressed the transmit button.
"The child is asleep, Viktor," Truett said into the mic, his voice calm, deep, and chillingly clear. "And your two men in the east wing are dead."
A pause stretched over the radio frequency—three long seconds of dead air.
Then, Viktor Cross let out a low, aristocratic laugh that sent chills down Garran’s spine.
May you like
"Truett Hawthorne," Cross’s voice purred through the speaker. "I should have known an old warhorse like you wouldn't die quietly in the dark. Come down to the grand ballroom, Truett. Let us finish the conversation we started thirty years ago."
"I’m on my way," Truett said, and crushed the radio beneath his heel.
