MOVE ON TO CHAPTER TWO TO UNCOVER THE TRUTH BEHIND THE STORY.

-5-

The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots echoed down the private hallway of the third-floor loft, growing louder with every passing second. The elevator chime didn't even ring; whoever was out there had bypassed the building's access controls entirely, overriding the security systems with the brute-force authority of municipal police override codes.

"To the back," I commanded, my instincts instantly shifting from marital rage to pure tactical survival. I dropped the manila folder onto the bed, grabbed Elena by the shoulder, and pushed her toward the master bathroom. "Get inside the walk-in closet, lock the door, and do not come out for anything. Understood?"

"Grant, what are you going to do?" she choked out, tears spilling over her cheeks as she gripped my shirt.

"I'm going to buy you time," I said, pulling her hands away and pushing her firmly toward the bathroom. "Go!"

Sterling didn't panic. He moved with a cold, calculated composure, pulling a heavy-duty titanium laptop case off the desk, sliding the master flash drive containing the financial audit inside, and snapping the latches shut. He looked at me, his eyes sharp and steady.

"There's a service stairwell at the end of the kitchen," Sterling said, pointing toward the back of the loft. "It leads down to the underground loading dock. If we can reach the parking garage, my armored sedan is parked in stall twelve. The keys are in the ignition."

"And the men outside?" I asked, my hand dropping to my waistband, instinctively searching for the 9mm pistol I had left locked in the glove box of my truck down in the garage.

Damn it. I was unarmed.

"They aren't looking to arrest us, Mr. Miller," Sterling said grimly, pulling a heavy, suppressed Sig Sauer from a hidden holster beneath his tailored vest. "Arthur doesn't take prisoners when millions of dollars in municipal embezzlement are on the line. They're going to clean house."

BAM!

The heavy wood-and-glass front door of the loft splintered inward, the reinforced deadbolt tearing through the drywall as a team of four armed men in tactical gear swarmed into the entryway. They weren't wearing standard Edmond police uniforms; they wore matte-black tactical vests marked with unmarked black patches, their faces concealed behind reinforced polycarbonate helmets and gas masks.

"Clear the living room!" a raspy, modulated voice barked over a tactical radio.

Sterling and I didn't wait. We bolted down the hallway toward the kitchen, ducking behind the massive marble island just as a hail of suppressed gunfire chewed through the drywall above our heads, raining plaster dust down onto the floor.

"They're using suppressed submachine guns!" Sterling yelled over the din, crouching low behind the island. He peeked around the corner, raised his Sig, and fired two controlled shots down the hallway.

A heavy thud echoed from the foyer, followed by a muffled curse as one of the operatives stumbled backward.

"That buys us ten seconds," I said, scanning the kitchen for an alternate weapon. My eyes landed on a heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove, alongside a thick wooden butcher's block holding a set of forged Japanese steel knives.

I grabbed the largest chef's knife, its blade heavy and balanced, feeling the cold steel grip in my hand.

"Move, move, move!" Sterling urged, gesturing toward the back service door.

We burst through the service door into the narrow concrete stairwell just as a round shattered the glass pane of the kitchen window behind us. We took the stairs three at a time, descending downward into the damp, echoing chill of the subterranean parking garage.

The emergency lighting in the garage flickered erratically, casting long, jittery shadows across the rows of parked vehicles. The sound of our boots splashing through puddles echoed loudly off the concrete pillars.

"Stall twelve! Right there!" Sterling pointed toward the far corner of the garage, where his matte-black armored sedan sat idling quietly, its exhaust pluming in the cold air.

As we sprinted across the open concrete toward the vehicle, the screech of tires echoed down the ramp behind us.

A second tactical SUV—a massive Ford Expedition with tinted windows and no license plates—tore down the ramp from the street level, its high beams blinding us in a wall of white light.

"Get in! Get in!" Sterling shouted, fumbling with his key fob as he unlocked the rear door of the sedan.

I shoved him toward the driver's side, but before I could open the passenger door, the Expedition slammed on its brakes, skidding across the wet concrete and blocking our only exit path out of the garage.

The doors of the SUV flew open, and three more armed operatives poured out, weapons raised and locked directly onto us.

"Drop the case, Sterling! Hands on your heads!" the lead operative roared over the sound of the idling engine.

Sterling froze, his hand hovering over the door handle of the sedan. I gripped the heavy chef's knife in my hand, my muscles tensing as I prepared to launch myself across the hood of the car. We were outgunned, trapped in a concrete box, and entirely cut off from help.

Unless...

I slowly lowered my right hand, sliding my phone out of my pocket with my thumb, and tapped the emergency speed dial.