“I’m heading back inside the gala,” Marshall said, checking his mirrors as he took a tight corner. “Norah’s in danger. Hale’s involved. Sidarov’s people are active. I need backup on location.”
“Understood,” Landon replied immediately, no hesitation, no request for clarification. “Drop me a pin. I can be there in ten.”
Ten minutes. Fast. Competent. Exactly what he needed.
A faint, involuntary thought flickered—why Landon, when no one else had picked up?—but Marshall shoved it aside. He didn’t have the luxury of indulging gut paranoia right now. Not when Norah was inside that building with people who would kill to send a message.
“Copy,” Marshall said, exhaling once through his nose. “See you in ten.”
He cut the line before Landon could say anything else, focus narrowing to the asphalt, the perimeter map in his head, and the woman he refused to leave behind again.
The SUV turned the final corner, skirting around the hotel toward the loading docks. The hotel’s front entrance rolled past on his left. Too many eyes. No chance going in there. Not without getting cuffed and thrown out again.
The service wing was better. The alley was shadowed and empty beyond a lone staff member on a smoke break who didn’t care about tuxedoed intruders. He eased the SUV into a dark corner and cut the engine.
Stephen’s voice cut in. “You’ll have a blind spot on the west loading dock entrance in thirty seconds. But after that? You’re flying dark. I’ll keep comms open, but...be careful, Marsh.”
He didn’t answer. His pulse had already shifted into the slow, precise rhythm of a man about to break every rule he’d ever followed. Going in alone was suicide.
He stepped out of the SUV and slipped into the shadows along the loading bay. Cold air rushed against his face. The metal door ahead stood slightly ajar—propped open by a catering dolly.
Perfect.
He moved silently, pressed himself to the wall, and slipped through. He wished now he’d listened to more of Jackson’s lectures about silent approaches.
Inside, the concrete corridor was narrow, cool, and cluttered with crates of champagne, stacked linen, and AV cases. He took three steps deeper into the service hallway when low voices drifted from around the corner. They were strained and edged with panic.
He slowed, senses narrowing to a razor’s edge.
“Hurry up. Sidarov wants it gone tonight.”
The voice floated from the next corridor. He eased forward, every movement silent and deliberate. When he reached the corner, he angled himself just enough to see.
Two men in dark suits were rolling a catering cart toward a service exit. A long, lumpy package was strapped tightly on top, the nylon stretched and buckled with efficient brutality. Even before he saw anything else, Marshall’s gut bottomed out.
No. No, God—please, no.
For a split second, the world narrowed to a single horror-struck thought. Norah.
He edged closer, pulse kicking hard, breath tight in his chest. The men adjusted their grip, shifting the weight as they maneuvered the cart around a pallet, and the motion jostled the edge of the tarp.
Just enough.
A limp hand slid into view. Definitely not Norah’s slender fingers.
There was a ring on the index finger that Marshall immediately identified as Harrington’s signet ring. The pretentious jerk always wore it.
Marshall’s breath left him in a hard, silent exhale. Harrington. Executed. Hauled out like trash. Exactly—exactly—the way Norah would be if she pushed back, if she said the wrong thing, if she hesitated.
The world bled red at the edges. He braced a hand on the concrete block wall, fingers digging in to keep himself anchored, to keep from launching forward and snapping both men’s necks before they reached the exit. Fury and fear collided so violently inside him he almost couldn’t tell them apart.
Norah had been in a room with these people. Locked in with a monster who didn’t flinch at executions.
“Loose ends,” one of the men muttered as they pushed through the door. “Should’ve kept his mouth shut.”
Marshall closed his eyes for half a second, steadying himself, then opened them again. There would be no more loose ends. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The men pushed the cart through a back exit, the door slamming quietly behind them. The hallway fell silent.
