“Ma’am, this building is closed,” the lead guard says, his tone uncertain. “How did you get in here?”
“I used the loading bay terminal,” she says sharply, stepping up to the mesh. “I am Iris Hale. My father is Judge William Hale, the Chairman of the Waldorf Board. You work for him.”
The second guard lowers his weapon. “Ms. Hale?”
“My father is arriving in twenty-five minutes for an unannounced inspection of the VIP Study,” she lies smoothly. “He sent me ahead to ensure the new security protocols are functioning. Clearly, they are. Now open this gate.”
The lead guard hesitates. “We didn’t get a memo about an inspection tonight.”
“Because it’s a blind audit, Officer Miller,” she says. Her eyes flick to his name tag for a split second before locking back onto his. “Frankly, the fact that you are interrogating me instead of securing the East Wing tells me you are failing the drill. Open the gate. Unless you want me to call my father right now and tell him his new security firm is actively obstructing his family.”
The threat lands perfectly. Miller holsters his weapon, pulls a ring of keys, and unlocks the deadbolt. He slides the barrier open.
“Apologies, Ms. Hale,” Miller says. “We’re just following protocol since the incident last week.”
“I appreciate your diligence,” she says, her tone softening enough to reward his compliance. “But my father requires privacy tonight. Take your patrol to the East Wing exhibits and stay there until I give you the all-clear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. East Wing,” Miller confirms quickly.
The two guards turn and walk away, their flashlight beams bouncing into the distant corridors.
Iris waits until their footsteps fade.
I step out of the shadows and walk through the open gate, stopping beside her. I look down at the woman who cleared our path without a single drop of blood.
“Remind me never to play poker with you,” I murmur.
“Let’s go,” she says.
We move fluidly through the dark. As we walk through the Grand Hall, our boots echoing softly on the marble, we pass what is left of the towering floral arch. The gala blooms are mostly gone now, stripped back after the event, leaving only browned eucalyptus, brittle wire, and a few paper-dry white petals caught in the frame like ghosts.
She walks by it without turning her head. She doesn’t spare a single glance for the rotting symbol of her old life.
We reach the doors of the VIP Study. I push them open and step inside, pulling a handheld RF scanner from my belt to sweep the corners for active bugs or lenses. Green light. The room is clean.
Team 6 sanitized the crime scene perfectly on the night of the hit. The mahogany table gleams in the dark. The plush velvet armchairs are arranged perfectly. There’s no blood staining the expensive Persian rug. The vase of orange lilies is gone. Only a faint antiseptic ghost lingers beneath the museum wax and old paper.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear the suppressed, metallic cough of my pistol. I can still see Elias falling to the floor, clutching his chest.
I set the black Pelican case I’m carrying onto the mahogany table and pop the secure latches.
“Time,” I say quietly.
Iris looks up at the tall antique clock standing in the corner of the room. “Eleven-twenty.”
“Forty minutes,” I say. “I need ten to rig the room.”
I pull out three micro-cameras, each no larger than a shirt button. I don’t need Elias’s blueprints for this; I know how these historic, Gilded Age mansions were constructed. The Waldorf architects loved their secrets.
I move toward the north wall of the study, stopping at the decorative plaster column that anchors the bookshelves. I run my bare hands along the intricate molding until my fingers catch on a hidden, hairline seam. When I press hard against the wood paneling, the hidden catch releases, and a tall, narrow section of the wall pops open, revealing a dark, hollow cavity behind the portrait of Cornelius Waldorf.
It’s a narrow, vertical void beside the steel safe, originally designed as a Prohibition-era smuggler’s hide. It’s barely wide enough for a man to stand inside.
I mount the first micro-camera directly into the intricate carving of the picture frame, angling the tiny lens down to cover the exact center of the room. I wire it swiftly to the transmitter pack, leaving the battery tucked safely inside the wall cavity.
I move silently to the HVAC intake vent near the ceiling. I attach a highly sensitive parabolic microphone directly to the iron grate, pointing the receiver toward the Persian rug.
“The acoustic vent,” I tell her, my voice low. “It’ll pick up a whisper from anywhere in the room. When he confesses, Varro’s servers will record the audio and upload it to three differentencrypted locations simultaneously. Even if he destroys this entire room, the audio is permanently in the cloud.”
