Chapter 6 - Mason Crowe’s Nightmare and the Blood on the Marble
The ballroom doors crashed open a second later as Mason Crowe and four heavy-set security operatives sprinted in, their service pistols drawn, faces red with adrenaline and confusion. They had been stationed in the west foyer answering a false alarm—a staged disturbance near the coat check that Mason now realized had been a deliberate diversion to pull the real muscle away from the target zone.
Mason skidded to a halt on the champagne-slicked floor, his eyes wide, his jaw slack.
He saw Viktor Vance groaning in agony on the floor with a shattered elbow. He saw Marcus out cold amidst the broken glass. He saw Leonard Pike and his entourage backing frantically toward the exit doors, their faces drained of all color.
And in the center of the carnage, standing over Vincent Hale, was Claire Mercer.
The oversized security jacket was splashed with a dark droplet of blood that wasn't hers. Her brown hair was still perfectly pinned back, not a single strand out of place. In her right hand, she held Viktor’s Glock with the casual, balanced grip of a veteran combat instructor.
"What... what the hell happened?" Mason stammered, his face turning an unhealthy shade of purple as he realized the magnitude of his catastrophic miscalculation.
"Clear the perimeter, Mason," Vincent Hale said.
The mafia boss slowly stood up from behind Claire, brushing a speck of dust off his bespoke trousers. His voice was low, devoid of its usual booming arrogance, carrying instead the terrifying, frozen quiet of a man who had stared directly into the abyss of his own grave and watched a ghost pull him back.
"Boss, I—I didn't know—" Mason started, his hands trembling as he gripped his pistol.
"Shut up," Vincent said, without even looking at his security chief. He turned his gaze slowly to Claire. He walked around her, inspected the bullet hole in the gilded wall behind them, and then looked down at the assassin groaning on the floor.
Then Vincent turned back to the woman in the oversized jacket.
"Where did you learn to move like that, Ms. Mercer?" Vincent asked, his voice softer now, almost probing.
Claire lowered the pistol, engaged the safety with a crisp click, and laid it gently on a passing cocktail cart.
May you like
"Shopping mall security," she replied evenly. "And seven years before that that didn't make it onto paper, Mr. Hale."
Mason swallowed hard, feeling the cold sweat freezing on the back of his neck. He knew, with absolute certainty, that before the sun rose over Lake Michigan, his career—and quite possibly his life—was effectively over.
