Chapter 5 - The Inside Man
The howling wind from the shattered window masked the sounds of the gala outside.
Larkin checked the magazine of his pistol, his jaw set in a line of pure, terrifying rage.
"We have exactly three minutes before Thomas realizes his sniper missed," Larkin stated.
"My men guard every exit, every elevator, and every stairwell."
I stepped back into my steel-tipped stiletto, my mind racing through the thousands of spreadsheets I had memorized over the years.
I didn't just process the payroll for the syndicate; I processed the operational logistics for the Continental Hotel.
"They won't guard the subterranean laundry chutes," I said.
Larkin looked at me, his dark eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"You want me to jump down a laundry chute in a four-thousand-dollar tuxedo?"
"Unless you prefer a body bag, yes," I replied firmly.
I grabbed Larkin’s uninjured arm and pulled him toward the heavy service door hidden behind the private bar.
We slipped into the dimly lit service corridor just as heavy boots pounded into the VIP lounge behind us.
"Move fast, move quiet," Larkin whispered, taking the lead with his gun raised.
We navigated the labyrinth of the hotel’s back-of-house operations.
I guided him through the industrial kitchens, dodging confused chefs and stainless-steel prep tables.
My severe bob swung sharply around my face, the espresso hair clinging to my sweat-dampened neck.
We reached the heavy steel doors of the loading dock, the final barrier between us and the dark streets of Manhattan.
Larkin reached for the release bar, but the electronic keypad above the door glowed a solid, angry red.
"It's on total lockdown," Larkin cursed, slamming his fist against the steel.
"Step aside," I ordered.
I pulled a small, modified flash drive from the clasp of my clutch purse.
I had designed the hotel's security software encryption two years ago to hide Larkin's illegal imports.
I knew exactly where the backdoors were buried.
I jammed the drive into the maintenance port and typed a twelve-digit override sequence into the keypad.
The light flashed green, and the heavy magnetic locks disengaged with a loud clank.
Larkin pushed the door open, the freezing New York air hitting our faces.
But freedom was an illusion.
Standing on the loading dock, illuminated by the harsh glare of halogen security lights, was Thomas.
He was flanked by six heavily armed men, all bearing the coiled viper tattoo.
Thomas smiled, slowly clapping his hands as we stepped out into the cold.
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"I have to admit, Penelope," Thomas laughed, pulling a silver revolver from his jacket.
"You look stunning tonight, but it really is a shame you are going to die in a garbage alley."
