Chapter 6 - THE ARMORY CORRIDOR
The lower-level corridors of the Cross estate smelled of gun oil, cool concrete, and old limestone. Mara moved down the service stairs with the silent, practiced stealth of someone who had spent a decade carrying delicate trays through crowded, unpredictable dining rooms without spilling a single drop.
Every step was calculated. Heel-to-toe, weight balanced over the center of gravity, eyes scanning the corners where the shadows pooled.
Ahead of her, near the heavy steel door of the underground armory, a pair of boots crunched softly on the concrete.
Marcus Vance.
He was moving fast, clutching a heavy duffel bag in his left hand and the suppressed Sig Sauer in his right. He didn't expect anyone to cut him off from this side of the estate; the service stairs were supposed to be locked from the inside.
Mara pressed herself flat against the cool stone wall beside a recessed utility alcove, her fingers tightening around the heavy brass panther paperweight. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was wonderfully, terrifyingly clear.
Three steps away, she counted in her head. Two steps. Now.
As Marcus rushed past the alcove, Mara didn't hesitate. She stepped out of the shadow, swinging the heavy brass sculpture in a tight, devastating arc straight toward the side of his knee.
The impact echoed like a cracking branch down the concrete corridor. Marcus let out a sharp gasp of agony, his leg buckling beneath him as he crashed hard onto the floor, dropping the duffel bag. The suppressed pistol skittered across the smooth concrete out of reach.
Before he could recover, Mara was on top of him. She drove her knee straight into his chest, pinning him to the floor, and brought the heavy brass base of the paperweight down millimeters from his nose, stopping with lethal precision.
Marcus wheezed, staring up into her cold, unflinching eyes, blood trickling from a split lip where he had hit the floor.
"Who... what the hell are you?" Marcus choked out, clutching his shattered knee.
"I'm the person who told you not to mess with my section," Mara said smoothly, her voice a calm, lethal whisper.
Footsteps echoed heavily down the corridor as Julian rounded the corner, his Browning drawn and ready. He stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the scene: his head of security—a ruthless, veteran operative—pinned to the concrete floor by a thirty-one-year-old waitress holding a brass panther.
Julian slowly lowered his weapon, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.
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"Well," Julian said, stepping up beside them and looking down at Marcus. "It seems my security detail just got a major upgrade."
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