Marshall straightened, shoulders square, jaw set. He pulled in a breath, steadied himself, and moved deeper into the hotel’s service guts. Past the housekeeping hallway. Past catering prep. The concrete corridors gave way to carpeted, but unadorned, passageways. Past the curtained side rooms.
He was done being subtle. Every step forward was a promise.
I’m going to find her.
I’m going to get her out.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
At the far end of the corridor, light spilled from the ballroom. Music swelled. The elegant sound of the string quartet was grotesquely at odds with the fact that a man had just been murdered on the property.
His comm hissed softly, then Joey’s voice pushed through, tight with urgency. “Marshall, It’s me. Stephen is looking at Geneva for me. We’ve got Landon on the board—he’s en route from the parking garage. If you just wait two minutes?—”
“No.”
“Marshall.” She lowered her voice, leaning into authority she rarely used with him. “Don’t go in blind. We don’t know how many Syndicate assets are inside. We don’t know what Hale told security. If something happens to you?—”
He halted just shy of the ballroom threshold, shoulders rigid, jaw tight enough to crack. “If I wait, Joey.. .what happens to her?”
Silence. Heavy. Pained.
“You don’t know she’s in immediate danger,” she said quietly, almost pleading. “Please. Let Landon meet you. Don’t make me patch Flint in and tell him you went rogue in a flipping tux.”
A humorless breath escaped him. “If Flint asks, tell him it wasn’t the tux.”
“Marshall—”
“I’m not losing her,” he said. Not again. Not like this. “Patch me into cameras if you can. Otherwise, stay on comms.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it’s mine to make.”
Marshall reached the threshold. He stepped forward, severing the last chance to turn back.
Straightening his jacket, he set his jaw and walked out of the shadows, back into the glittering room—no longer a guest, no longer an observer, but a soldier with one objective.
Get Norah Winslow out alive.
CHAPTER 26
NORAH
Norah foundRichard near the bar.
He was exactly where she should’ve expected him to be—half-turned toward a senator from Ohio, laughing at something that probably wasn’t funny. He had a glass of something amber in his hand, posture relaxed and commanding at once. The crowd bent around him like he was its natural center of gravity.
How could he stand here and chat about polling trends as if Trip Harrington’s blood wasn’t cooling somewhere in this building?
Norah’s hand tightened around her clutch until the edges bit into her palm. Her heart thudded in that unpleasant off-beat way it had developed since Sidarov’s private salon. She could still see Trip on the floor every time she blinked. The sound of the shot. The silence afterward. Hale’s shoulders barely flinching.
She drew a breath that didn’t feel sufficient and stepped forward.
“Richard?” Her voice came out steadier than she expected. Years of boardroom composure were good for something. “Could I borrow you for a second?”
Both men turned. The senator’s gaze warmed—recognition, curiosity, the faint interest that came with knowing you were talking to Hale’s favorite analyst. Hale’s expression was equally pleasant, though she caught the flicker of mild disapproval at the interruption.
“Excuse me a moment, Senator.” Hale’s hand touched the man’s sleeve, the perfect mix of apology and superiority. “My right hand needs me.”
