Chapter 9 - The Siege of the Meridian
At 4:30 AM, the Las Vegas Strip was shrouded in a heavy morning fog that rolled in off the surrounding desert.
The Voss Meridian Resort stood like a dark, silent monolith against the grey sky. All the exterior casino lights had been killed, plunging the massive luxury complex into complete darkness.
Federal law enforcement vehicles and Las Vegas Metro Police units had established a five-block perimeter around the resort, their red and blue strobe lights flashing against the foggy streets.
Grant and I stood inside the mobile tactical command trailer parked two blocks from the main entrance, reviewing the resort’s architectural blueprints on a digital screen.
A senior FBI Special Agent in Charge, a stern woman named Vance, stood across from us.
“Damon Voss has thirty heavily armed mercenaries occupying the thirty-fourth floor,” Agent Vance reported, pointing at the blueprint. “He has explosives rigged along the elevator shafts and the central server node. If we push through the main doors, he wipes the servers and detonates the floor.”
“He has my mother in the penthouse suite,” Grant said, his voice cold as river ice. “A frontal assault by federal SWAT will get her killed.”
“We don't have another option, Mr. Voss,” Agent Vance countered. “We can't let him destroy the local network evidence.”
I leaned over the digital blueprint, tracing a finger along a narrow, unlit shaft running along the rear exterior wall of the building.
“What is this?” I asked.
Grant looked at where my finger was pointing. “That’s the high-voltage utility conduit shaft. It runs from the subterranean laundry facilities straight up to the thirty-fourth floor server room. It’s eighteen inches wide.”
Agent Vance shook her head immediately. “No tactical operative wearing full armor can fit through an eighteen-inch utility shaft.”
“I’m not wearing full armor,” I said, looking up at Agent Vance. “And I’ve spent eleven years slipping through places people don't look.”
Grant looked at me, his eyes wide with sudden concern. “Celeste... if he catches you inside that shaft, you have no cover. No backup.”
“He won't catch me,” I said quietly, pulling the titanium knife from my pocket and testing the blade’s edge. “You create a distraction at the front glass doors with the federal team. Draw his men’s attention to the main elevator bank. When he looks toward the lobby, I come out of the server room wall.”
Grant stared at me for three long seconds. He knew the risk was suicidal, but he also knew it was the only way to save his mother and preserve the evidence my father had died to protect.
He reached out, his hand wrapping tightly around my forearm, pulling me close.
“Don't die in there, Rowan,” Grant whispered, his voice thick with an intensity that went far beyond business or revenge. “I still owe you a wage for wiping my floors.”
A small, faint smile touched my lips. “Double my hourly rate, Voss, and I’ll consider surviving.”
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Ten minutes later, I was inside the pitch-black subterranean laundry room beneath the casino floor.
I pulled off my heavy tactical jacket, keeping only a tight black thermal shirt, my combat pants, and my boots. I strapped the titanium knife to my thigh, popped open the rusted iron maintenance hatch of the high-voltage utility conduit, and pulled myself into the dark vertical tunnel.
