Chapter 1 - The Crimson Shimmer
Clara pulled me down into the dip as the infrared beam seared the velvet upholstery where my head had been a microsecond before.
The chandeliers above continued their aristocratic chime,
drowning out the faint,
terrifying whistle of a suppressed round grazing the crown molding.
Mason Rusk stood fifty feet away,
his hand frozen over his lapel mic,
his eyes darting toward our position with predatory impatience.
He expected me to drop.
He expected blood on the imported Italian marble.
Instead,
I was staring directly into Clara’s midnight-blue eyes,
my arms locked around her waist as the string quartet swelled into a triumphant crescendo.
“You saved my life,
” I murmured,
my breath brushing her collarbone.
“I saved my boss,
” she corrected,
her voice entirely devoid of panic,
though her pulse hammered frantically against my chest.
“And your accountant,
” she added with a ghost of a smile.
“More than that now,
apparently,
” I replied,
keeping my tone light for the benefit of the socialites peering at us through champagne flutes.
“According to your loud declaration,
yes,
Mr.
Vale,
” she whispered back,
her gaze sharp as broken glass.
“We need to move before Mason recalibrates his sniper’s coordinates.
”
“Where?”
“The service elevators behind the east orchestra pit.
”
“They’re biometric-locked.
”
“Not since I spent forty-eight hours rewriting their subsystem architecture last month while you were busy auditing the Singapore shipping lanes.
”
I raised an eyebrow,
a flicker of genuine respect cutting through the adrenaline surging through my veins.
“You hacked the Alden House?”
“I prefer to call it preemptive asset optimization.
”
The red dot flashed again,
sweeping across the back of Clara’s emerald gown like a bleeding scar.
“Duck,
” I muttered,
sweeping her into a rapid,
violent spin that carried us past a pillar of gilded mahogany.
The bullet struck the pillar with a dry,
splintering crack,
showering us in fine dust and gold leaf.
The ballroom erupted into polite,
confused applause,
assuming it was a theatrical stunt or a rogue champagne cork.
Idiots,
all of them.
They danced on the edge of a volcano while billionaires traded lives like commodities.
Mason was already marching toward us,
his face a mask of simulated concern.
“Sir! Mrs.
Vale! Are you alright?” he shouted,
drawing three armed guards from the terrace shadows.
“Never better,
Mason,
” I called out,
my voice dripping with cold sulfur.
“Just enjoying the music.
”
“We need to secure the perimeter immediately,
” Mason insisted,
closing the distance with terrifying speed.
“The sniper has a clean trajectory through the western skylight.
”
“Convenient that you know his exact vantage point so quickly,
” Clara noted smoothly,
leaning her weight against my shoulder as if winded from the dance.
Mason’s eyes flicked to her,
a micro-expression of pure venom crossing his hardened features.
“Forensic accountants should stick to spreadsheets,
Miss Whitmore,
” he snarled quietly.
“And head of security should stick to protecting his employer instead of selling his skull to Patrick Sloan,
” Clara retorted without missing a beat.
Mason’s hand twitched toward his holster.
I didn't hesitate.
With a motion too fast for the eye to track,
I pivoted,
May you like
drew my custom Sig Sauer from beneath my tuxedo jacket,
and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against Mason’s sternum.
