The soft, melodic chime of the private elevator echoed through the penthouse, a sound that usually signaled the arrival of expensive takeout or high-end couriers.
Tonight, it sounded like the tolling of an execution bell.
The heavy steel doors slid apart with a pneumatic hiss.
The scent of jasmine and catered Italian food was instantly obliterated. A harsh, metallic wave of cordite, burnt rubber, and raw copper flooded the foyer.
Hayes stepped out first.
The mercenary's tailored suit was ruined, the left sleeve torn open to reveal the dark Kevlar weave beneath. His face was a mask of cold, operational violence. He held his suppressed sidearm pointed at the floor, his eyes sweeping the penthouse interior with paranoid, lethal calculation before he stepped aside.
He pulled Diana Lockridge out of the steel carriage.
Ryan went completely still.
The immaculate venture capitalist, the woman who commanded boardrooms and dictated global market trends, was unrecognizable.
