Chapter 7 - THE TRAP CLOSES
The door swung open, flooding the dark office with hallway light.
Victor Vance stood in the doorway, a tall, imposing man in a bespoke tuxedo with salt-and-pepper hair and cold, calculating eyes. Behind him stood two massive bodyguards in dark suits, their hands resting ominously near their waistbands.
Vance stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze locking onto Kendra standing by his terminal. For a second, genuine confusion flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a sharp, predatory grin.
"Well, well," Vance purred, stepping into the room and letting the door click shut behind him. "If it isn't the dead waitress from Hawthorne House. Word on the street was you took a bullet and didn't make it. I suppose Damon Cross is a better surgeon than I gave him credit for."
Kendra kept her body relaxed, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, remembering Marcus’s training. She didn't flinch. She didn't step back. "And word on the street, Mr. Vance, is that your aim is terrible."
Vance’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, ugly scowl. He motioned to his guards. "Grab her. Let's see what Damon’s little pet has to say when we introduce her to some real pain."
The two guards lunged forward simultaneously, massive hands reaching out to grab her arms.
“Now, Kendra,” Damon’s voice echoed in her ear, cold as winter steel.
Instead of freezing, Kendra dropped violently to one marble knee, sweeping her leg out in a vicious, circular arc. Her heel connected squarely behind the first guard’s knee joint with a sickening pop. The giant roared in surprise, buckling sideways and crashing heavily into his partner, tangling their legs in a clumsy heap.
Kendra didn't wait for them to recover. She grabbed a heavy, bronze paperweight from Vance’s desk and hurled it straight at the wall-mounted security console, shattering the glass and short-circuiting the room’s lighting system into a shower of sparks.
Darkness plunged the office into deep shadow.
Vance cursed loudly, fumbling inside his jacket for a weapon. “Window to your left, Kendra,” Damon’s voice guided her effortlessly through the gloom. “The emergency balcony leads to the sculpture garden.”
May you like
Without missing a beat, Kendra vaulted over the back of the leather sofa, sprinted toward the French doors, and slammed her shoulder against the latch, crashing out onto the moonlit balcony just as a gunshot cracked behind her, embedding a lead slug into the doorframe she had vacated a fraction of a second earlier.
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