Chapter 8 - The Metropolitan Arts Center
The Metropolitan Arts Center stood like a monolith of glass and polished concrete against the rainy skyline, surrounded by luxury sedans and flashing paparazzi cameras.
Ava parked a stolen municipal maintenance van—which she hotwired behind the railway station using a toolkit from her car—directly across the street from the VIP vehicle entrance of the underground garage.
She sat in the darkened driver's seat, staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
She looked like a completely different person: battered, drenched, and hardened by betrayal.
She checked the heavy metal lockbox sitting on the passenger seat, ensuring the latch was secure.
Then, she checked her watch.
1:45 a.m.
According to Julian's intelligence feed, prosecutor Sarah Jenkins's armored town car was scheduled to pull out of the VIP subterranean bay in exactly fifteen minutes.
Ava took a deep, steadying breath, grabbed the lockbox, stepped out of the van, and slipped past the automated security gate of the underground parking ramp while a catering truck was entering.
The subterranean garage was vast, dimly lit, and echoed with the distant dripping of water pipes and the low hum of ventilation fans.
Rows of luxury vehicles lined the concrete pillars, casting long, eerie shadows across the parking deck.
Ava walked quietly toward Sector C, where Sarah Jenkins's black armored Lincoln Navigator was parked near the private elevator lobby.
As she approached the vehicle, the sharp sound of approaching high heels clicking against the concrete floor echoed through the cavernous garage.
Ava stepped behind a thick concrete support pillar, holding the metal lockbox close to her chest.
A tall woman in a sharp charcoal business suit, carrying a leather briefcase, walked briskly toward the driver's side of the Navigator.
It was Sarah Jenkins.
As Sarah reached into her designer handbag for her electronic key fob, Ava stepped out from the shadows.
“Prosecutor Jenkins,” Ava said calmly, keeping her hands visible and empty.
Sarah spun around instantly, her hand darting inside her coat toward a licensed personal defense weapon before she recognized the young woman standing before her.
“Who are you?” Sarah demanded, her eyes narrowing with professional suspicion as she assessed Ava's soaked, disheveled appearance. “How did you get down here?”
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“My name is Ava Morgan,” she replied steadily, stepping forward into the harsh fluorescent light. “And I have the evidence that proves Richard Morgan—my father—murdered his wife fifteen years ago, and is currently framing his own son to cover it up.”
Sarah froze, her hand dropping away from her holster as she stared at the battered young woman standing in front of her in the middle of a subterranean parking garage at two in the morning.
