Chapter 6 - Blood on Italian Marble
The assassin howled in agony as his knee buckled backward.
His rifle discharged wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster and crystal dust down upon the terrified guests.
Larkin did not hesitate.
He lunged upward, driving his fist into the assassin's jaw with the force of a freight train.
The man collapsed backward, hitting the marble floor with a heavy thud, out cold.
Larkin quickly stripped the rifle from the unconscious man and checked the magazine.
"We need to move, now," Larkin ordered, grabbing Penelope's hand.
His grip was iron-tight, pulling her through the stampeding crowd toward the service elevators.
Gunfire echoed sporadically across the ballroom as Victor's Russian men began clashing with the Steves Syndicate bodyguards.
It was a full-scale mafia war breaking out over a plate of hors d'oeuvres.
Penelope struggled to keep up, her dark silk dress tearing at the hem as she dodged broken glass and fleeing socialites.
They reached the kitchen doors just as two of Thomas's loyal men stepped out, blocking their path with drawn pistols.
Larkin fired twice without breaking stride, dropping both men before they could even aim.
The violence was no longer sterilized into spreadsheets.
It was raw, deafening, and painting the walls red.
They burst into the industrial kitchen, the scent of copper and roasted garlic mixing terribly in the air.
Larkin slammed his hand against the security keypad of the private freight elevator.
The metal doors groaned open, and he shoved Penelope inside, diving in right behind her.
Bullets sparked against the closing steel doors as they sealed shut.
The elevator lurched upward, carrying them away from the slaughter.
Larkin leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily, his tuxedo jacket ruined.
He looked at Penelope, who was standing perfectly still, her face pale but her eyes remarkably focused.
"You kicked a trained killer in the kneecap," Larkin said, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"My shoes were expensive," Penelope replied flatly.
"I wanted to get my money's worth."
Larkin let out a genuine, unhinged laugh that echoed in the small metal box.
"Who the hell are you, Penelope Woods?" he asked, stepping closer to her.
"I am the woman trying to keep you alive long enough to sign my next paycheck," she answered.
The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival at the rooftop penthouse.
Larkin reached for the door handle, but Penelope noticed something dark spreading across his white shirt.
"Larkin, you're bleeding," she gasped, pointing to his side.
He looked down, mildly surprised by the crimson stain blooming just beneath his ribs.
"It seems Thomas has better aim than I thought," Larkin muttered.
Before he could take another step, his knees buckled.
He collapsed heavily against Penelope, driving her back against the steel wall.
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As she struggled to hold his weight, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a dozen armed men waiting for them.
At the center of the ambush stood Thomas Dixon, holding the titanium flash drive that Larkin had just put in his own pocket.
