Chapter 3 - Ghosts of Pier 19
Claire didn't wait for the tactical team to establish their firing lines.
She reached up, ripped off the remaining fabric of her torn gold train to free her legs, and kicked off her six-inch Christian Louboutin heels. Barefoot against the cold marble, she was virtually silent.
She slipped around the back of the column, using the thick clouds of dust from the shattered glass as cover.
The tactical team advanced past the stage. "Clear left. Clear right. Visual on the target's blood trail near the bar."
"She's not near the bar," a voice whispered from directly above them.
The rear operative looked up just in time to see Claire dropping from the top of the twelve-foot decorative marble wall. She landed squarely on his shoulders, her knees locking around his neck. With a sharp twist of her hips, she executed a flawless neck-crank, snapping his head sideways and driving him face-first into the floor before he could squeeze the trigger.
As he hit the marble, Claire reached down, unholstered his suppressed SIG Sauer P320 from his tactical rig, and fired two precise shots into the chest of the second operator before he could turn his weapon around.
Pfft-pfft.
The second man collapsed backward into a table of dessert sculptures.
The lead tactical shooter spun around, bringing his submachine gun up, but Claire was already inside his guard. She grabbed the barrel of his weapon, forced it skyward as a burst of 9mm rounds chewed into the ornate ceiling plaster, and drove the palm of her hand upward into his nose bone.
The tactical operative stumbled back, his visor cracking, blood spurting from his face.
Claire swept his front leg out, brought him to the ground, and pinned his throat beneath the heel of her bare foot. She leaned down, pointing his own sidearm directly between his eyes.
"Who sent you?" she demanded, her voice chillingly quiet. "Was it Marcus?"
The operative spat blood against her gold dress, grinning through cracked teeth. "You're... you're supposed to be dead, Viper. Pier 19... we burned the warehouse... we saw the body..."
"You saw what I wanted you to see," Claire said coldly. "Where is Marcus?"
"He's... he's in the city," the man wheezed. "He knows... he knows Han bought the ledger. He knows... the black accounts..."
Claire’s eyes widened slightly. The ledger.
She turned her head to look at Daniel, who was watching her from fifteen feet away, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling as he clutched his wound.
Daniel hadn't just been acquiring a shipping conglomerate tonight. He had bought something far more dangerous—the classified financial registry of the Syndicate, the very organization Claire had faked her death to escape five years ago.
"Thank you," Claire whispered to the operative.
She brought the heavy steel butt of the pistol down against his temple, knocking him unconscious instantly.
Sirens were wailing outside now, the red and blue flashing lights of the NYPD illuminating the high, smoke-filled windows of the Grand Astoria.
Claire pocketed the pistol, grabbed a second magazine from the operative's vest, and sprinted across the ruined ballroom to Daniel’s side.
She dropped to her knees beside him, pressing her hands firmly against his chest wound to slow the arterial bleeding. "Daniel. Look at me. Stay awake."
Daniel looked up at her, his vision swimming, his fingers feebly reaching up to touch the blood dried on her cheek.
"You... you hit a man with a tray," he muttered, a faint, disbelieving laugh escaping his blood-flecked lips. "You... you break arms, Claire..."
"I'll explain everything," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly as real emotion finally broke through her cold tactical exterior. "I promise you, Daniel. I'll explain everything. But I have to get you out of here before the police lock this place down. Marcus controls half the precinct commanders in Manhattan."
"Claire..." Daniel rasped, his eyes locking onto hers with intense, burning focus. "The file... on my desk at the office... I didn't know... I didn't know it was about you..."
Claire froze. "What?"
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"The ledger," Daniel choked out as his eyes began to roll back into his head. "It... it had your real name..."
Before she could ask another question, Daniel’s head fell limp against her arm, his consciousness slipping away as the heavy oak doors of the ballroom were kicked open by the first wave of armed police officers.
