Charlie looked at me. I looked at her.
"Service corridor," she said. "Behind the champagne station. There's a hallway that connects to the private dining rooms. I mapped it when we were here for the Calhoun job."
Of course she had.
We moved. Charlie led, camera at her side, walking with the unhurried confidence of someone heading to the restroom. I followed, blocking sightlines from Walsh's position. We slipped past the champagne station and through the service door without anyone raising an alarm.
The corridor was narrow, fluorescent-lit, lined with carts of glassware and stacked linens. Kitchen noise rumbled from somewhere deeper in the building. The air changedimmediately. Cooler, industrial, stripped of the perfume and champagne haze from the ballroom. Charlie found the junction where the hallway split. Left toward the kitchen, right toward the private dining rooms.
She positioned at the corner. I took the opposite wall, giving her a clear line of sight while I watched the approach behind us.
We waited.
One minute. Two. Charlie adjusted her camera settings in the dim light, her movements quick and sure. The fluorescent tube above us buzzed and flickered. Three minutes. I heard kitchen staff moving somewhere to our left, the clatter of dishes, a burst of Spanish from behind a closed door.
Charlie's breathing was controlled. Steady. She'd done this before — waited in hallways and stairwells and parked cars for the shot that mattered. The patience was part of the discipline. I'd seen Marines with worse composure under pressure.
Four minutes. Five. The corridor felt smaller with every passing second. If Walsh's people found us back here before the meeting happened, we'd have nothing. No photos, no evidence, just a paparazzo in a press lanyard standing where she shouldn't be.
My earpiece crackled.
"Movement," Cass said. "Walsh and one other heading your direction."
Charlie raised her camera. I heard footsteps. Two sets. Then Walsh's voice, low and urgent, too muffled to make out the words. They came around the corner ten feet from Charlie's position.
Walsh and Morello. Same man from the six-month-old photo: dark hair, sharp features, expensive suit. Documents passing between them. Walsh's hand gripping Morello's forearm. Intense, conspiratorial, two men who knew the walls were closing in.
Charlie's shutter fired. Rapid. Quiet. I counted twelve shots in six seconds.
Two photos, six months apart. Same two men. Same act. The conspiracy documented from beginning to end.
She lowered the camera and met my eyes. Got it.
"Time to go," I said.
We turned for the main corridor. Got four steps before I heard it. Shoes on tile, moving fast, coming from the ballroom side.
Two men. Walsh's unofficial security. They'd made us.
"Move."
Charlie didn't hesitate. We went left, deeper into the service corridor, away from the main hall. The footsteps behind us accelerated. I grabbed Charlie's arm and pulled her through a set of double doors into the kitchen.
Steam. Noise. Cooks shouting, plates clattering, the roar of commercial ovens. Staff looked up as we burst through but didn't stop us. Too busy, too focused, trained to ignore anything that wasn't their station. A chef yelled in French as Charlie dodged his prep table. I knocked a cart of glassware sideways behind us. Not subtle, but it would slow pursuit by a few seconds.
Through the kitchen. Past the dish pit. Charlie moved fast in heels, camera clutched to her chest with one arm, the other hand gathering her dress above her knees. I clocked the exit sign at the far end. Service stairs, leading down. The first pursuer hit the kitchen doors behind us.
I shoved Charlie toward the stairs. "Go. Down."
"What about—"
"Go."
She went. I turned.
The first man came through the kitchen at speed. Big, trained, reaching under his jacket. I didn't wait for him to getthere. Closed the distance in three steps, caught his reaching arm, and redirected his momentum into the stainless-steel counter. His head hit the edge and he went down hard.
I was down the stairs before his partner made it through the kitchen.
