Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Rain
The sky above Midtown was pitch black, torrential rain pouring down in heavy sheets, washing over the glittering glass of the Grand Plaza Hotel.
At 9:15 PM, a unmarked white linen truck backed into the subterranean service bay of the hotel.
Maeve stepped out of the passenger side, dressed in a black waiter’s uniform, her hair tucked neatly under a black cap. In her hand, she carried a heavy laundry hamper filled with table linens.
Beside her, Titan sat quietly in the back of the truck, his dark eyes watching her through the cracked door, waiting for Arthur’s command.
Maeve walked calmly toward the service entrance. Two private guards in suits were leaning against the loading dock, smoking cigarettes.
“Late delivery for the penthouse gala,” Maeve said smoothly, keeping her head down as she pushed the heavy rolling hamper forward.
“Gala started twenty minutes ago,” one guard grunted, reaching for his belt. “Let me see your clearance pass.”
“Sure thing,” Maeve replied.
She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out the silver Zippo lighter Arthur had given her, and flicked the flame open.
It was the signal.
From the dark bed of the linen truck, two silenced shots rang out with sharp thwip-thwip sounds. Both guards collapsed instantly onto the concrete dock, unconscious before they hit the ground.
Arthur stepped out from the shadow of the truck, flanked by Gabriel and six heavily armed operatives. Titan leaped out beside him, his massive body moving like a silent shadow in the night.
“Door’s clear,” Maeve whispered, sliding the security keycard through the reader.
The green light flashed. The heavy steel door clicked open.
Arthur grabbed Maeve by the waist, pulling her behind the safety of his broad shoulder as his team flooded into the service corridor. They moved swiftly through the narrow, pipe-lined hallway toward the grand service elevator.
Inside the elevator, the quiet hum of the machinery felt deafening as the floors ticked upward: 12... 18... 24... Penthouse.
Arthur checked the magazine of his pistol, his grey eye cold as ice. He turned to Maeve, reaching out to gently touch her face.
“Whatever happens up there,” Arthur whispered, his lips brushing against her forehead, “you are my heart now, Maeve. Do you understand?”
Before she could answer, the elevator dinged.
The doors slid open.
They stepped into a grand, gilded ballroom filled with crystal chandeliers, champagne glasses, and dozens of tuxedo-clad guests surrounding a raised stage.
Standing on the stage, holding a glass of scotch, was Julian Vance.
Julian froze, his champagne glass slipping from his fingers, shattering against the marble floor.
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“Arthur...?” Julian gasped, his face draining of all color. “You’re... you’re dead!”
“I was,” Arthur’s voice boomed across the ballroom, cutting through the classical music like a thunderclap. “But I came back for what’s mine.”
