Chapter 4 - THE MAP OF TRAITORS
The master bedroom was completely quiet now, save for the steady, dull roar of the rain against the glass.
Nathaniel sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers still wrapped around Penelope’s hands. His face was entirely unreadable, his jaw set so hard the muscle beneath his cheek twitched rhythmically.
“He’s dead,” Penelope repeated, her voice dropping into a dull, flat monotone. “I killed him, Nathaniel. I killed your best friend.”
Nathaniel didn't answer immediately. He looked at the blood on her fingers, then down at the torn seam of her dress.
“Richard was not my friend,” Nathaniel said softly. “He was an asset who forgot his place.”
He stood up from the bed, walked to the large mahogany desk in the corner, and pulled a clean white linen handkerchief from the top drawer. He picked up a crystal decanter of mineral water, soaked the handkerchief, and walked back to the mattress.
He sat beside her again, reached out, and began gently wiping the dark, dried blood from her face.
His movements were unbelievably tender. He wiped the crimson trail from her jawline, smoothed back the wet copper hair from her forehead, and gently cleaned the dried blood from her knuckles one by one.
Penelope watched him through a haze of tears. “What are we going to do?”
“First,” Nathaniel said, his grey eyes locking onto hers with absolute authority, “you are going to take a shower in the master bathroom. You are going to wash every drop of that blood down the drain.”
“And Richard?”
“Richard is currently lying in a service corridor at the Pierre Hotel,” Nathaniel said flatly. “By now, the catering manager has found him. The hotel management will call my private office before they call the police because they know who owns the building’s lease.”
He set the stained handkerchief down on the nightstand.
“Volkov’s men were supposed to arrive here at eleven,” Nathaniel continued, glancing at the gold clock on his desk. The hands read 10:42 PM. “That means Volkov’s primary strike team is already positioned in the underground garage, waiting for Richard’s signal.”
Penelope’s breath caught. “They’re downstairs?”
“They’re downstairs,” Nathaniel confirmed. He reached down, picked up his Sig Sauer from the velvet chair, pulled the slide back to check the chamber, and let it snap forward with a sharp, metallic click. “Which means I have eighteen minutes to clean this house.”
He stood up, looking down at her with a calm, dangerous intensity that made her trembling stop entirely.
“Go to the bathroom, Penelope,” he commanded softly. “Lock the door behind you. Do not open it for anyone except me.”
“Nathaniel, please—don't go down there alone—”
“I am never alone in this building, Penny,” he said softly. He reached down, his large hand gently resting on the back of her head, pulling her forward until his lips pressed against her forehead. “Wash the blood away. When you come out, this will be over.”
He turned and walked toward the heavy steel door. He entered a code on the wall panel; the bolts slid back, and he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway of the penthouse.
Waiting in the corridor were four men in dark suits, each holding suppressed submachine guns. They were Nathaniel’s personal guard detail—men who had served with him in the military before joining his private security firm.
The lead guard, a tall man with a scarred neck named Marcus, stepped forward. “Boss. The hotel called. Richard is down.”
“I know,” Nathaniel said, his voice dropping into the icy, precise tone of a commander on the field. “Volkov’s team is in the lower garage. They think they have the elevator access codes.”
Marcus’s eyes widened slightly. “Richard gave them the codes?”
“Richard gave them everything,” Nathaniel said flatly. “Kill the garage lights. Cut the elevator power to floors one through thirty. When Volkov’s team steps into the service bay, seal the steel shutters.”
Marcus nodded once, his face turning to stone. “And Volkov?”
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Nathaniel checked his watch. 10:45 PM.
“Volkov is waiting in his car three blocks away on 56th Street,” Nathaniel said, pulling a secondary weapon from his desk holster—a heavy, dark-barreled Revolver. “I will handle Volkov myself.”
