Sloane slipped into the service corridor. She punched Alex's bypass code into the keypad of the staff locker room. The light flashed green.
She broke into a locker and pulled out a black waitress uniform with gold embroidery. She stripped off her leather jacket and pulled the uniform on. She tied her hair into a tight bun, slid on a pair of thick black-framed glasses, and hooked a black medical mask over her ears.
She grabbed a silver tray loaded with champagne flutes and pushed through the swinging doors into the VIP lounge.
The bass vibrated in her teeth. Lasers sliced through the dark, smoke-filled room.
A drunk Wall Street bro reached out to grab her waist. Sloane didn't blink. She drove the hard edge of the silver tray directly into his wrist bone. He recoiled with a hiss. She kept walking.
Alex's voice buzzed in her ear. "V01. End of the hall. Blackwater mercs on the door."
Sloane kept her head down. She walked past V01, pretending to serve the adjacent booth. As she passed a tall potted palm, she stuck a micro-bug to the ceramic base.
Static hissed in her earpiece, followed by Haden's desperate, sweaty voice.
"I guarantee a thirty percent return in six months, Mr. Carrillo. The Mason name is backing this."
A low, gravelly voice cut through the audio. It was heavy, suffocating, and dripping with raw power.
"Your cash flow is bleeding. Your collateral is tied up in litigation. Your proposal is garbage."
Sloane's breath hitched. Eugene's voice was like a scalpel cutting through bone.
Haden stammered. "Please, if you just look at the projections-"
"Get this trash out of my sight," Eugene growled.
Before Sloane could even think of pulling the fire alarm, the heavy oak door of V01 exploded open.
Haden was thrown out by two massive bodyguards. He hit the Persian rug hard, the air rushing out of his lungs with a pathetic wheeze.
His business plan fluttered down, slapping him in the face.
Sloane immediately turned her back, pretending to wipe down a brass wall sconce.
Haden scrambled to his feet, cursing under his breath. He didn't even look at the waitress. He practically ran toward the elevators.
Sloane smiled under her mask. Step one, complete. Haden was ruined.
"Sloane, wait," Alex's voice crackled urgently. "Eugene's assistant just walked into the private lounge next door with a black briefcase. It matches the description of the Song Group's shadow ledger."
Sloane's eyes snapped toward the door of the private lounge. The Song Group helped destroy her father. That ledger was the holy grail.
The door was cracked open. A sliver of yellow light spilled onto the carpet. No guards.
She set her tray down. She stepped silently toward the door and pushed it open.
The room smelled of expensive whiskey and heavy cigar smoke. It was empty.
She took one step toward the mahogany desk.
SLAM.
The door behind her slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked violently.
Sloane spun around. She crashed directly into a wall of solid, burning muscle.
A massive hand shot out and clamped around the back of her neck. The grip was like iron. He slammed her backward against the heavy wooden door.
The air was knocked from her lungs.
She looked up. A pair of blood-red, feral eyes stared down at her from behind a silver half-mask.
The man's jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. His chest heaved. His body heat radiated through his suit, scorching her skin.
Eugene Carrillo.
Eugene's free hand slid down her waist, his touch burning through the thin uniform.
"A lost little mouse?" his voice was pure gravel, rough and dangerous. "Or a cheap gift from Haden?"
Sloane's heart hammered against her ribs. Her hand slid slowly toward the top of her boot. Toward the stun pen.
She stared into the eyes of the beast.
