Chapter 11 - Sophia
Sophia
Downtown loomed ahead, steel and glass and the constant pulse of traffic. But here, just off the heart of the city, things were a little quieter. Older. The museum was tucked among a row of historic buildings, their stone facades softened by time.
Michael pulled into the narrow side lot and cut the engine. The quiet that followed was too complete. No traffic, no wind, no city noise at all. Just silence.
Tony twisted in his seat to glance back at me. “You good?”
I nodded, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Just paperwork, right?”
“Just a quick signature, I was told,” Michael muttered, already stepping out.
We exited the car. I smoothed my jacket out of habit. The air had that sterile, pre-storm chill.
I gestured to a side door tucked beside a row of dumpsters. "When I was here last, the guy at the desk said to use that door next time."
Michael knocked. No answer.
He jiggled the handle. Nothing. Another knock, louder.
“You sure he meant this door?”
I hesitated. “Maybe he meant just for auctions. Sorry.”
Tony scanned the alley. “Didn’t hurt to try.”
We stood there a beat too long in the stillness.
“Let’s try the front,” I said, already moving.
Our steps clipped across the stone as we rounded the corner.
The museum loomed taller from the front, grand steps, wide columns, and iron-framed glass doors. I peeked inside, but no lights. No one at the desk.
Michael tried the front door. It creaked open without resistance.
“Alright,” he said. “If this is quick, maybe we'll get a pizza for you big guy.”
The lobby was cold and spotless. Marble floors gleamed like they’d just been polished.
We passed a security desk, empty. No papers. No coffee mug. Just the faint hum of a vent.
“Where the hell are they if they need your signature so bad?” Michael said, lowering his voice as it echoed.
“I don't know.” I said, looking around.
A sound caught our attention, a shuffle from down one of the side halls.
Tony immediately shifted, hand resting casually near his coat.
A figure rounded the corner. A man in slacks and a too-tight button-down, sweating through the collar. He smiled, wide. Too wide. It was the auctioneer.
“There you are.” He waved a clipboard like a peace offering. “Sorry to keep you waiting, had to finish up a call. I've got your paperwork here, Miss Rousseau. I apologize for this.”
He handed me the clipboard. I studied the document, understanding none of it, feeling more and more self-conscious with each passing second until I realized something was wrong.
"I think something is wrong here.” I handed it back to him as my phone buzzed in my purse.
Gabriel: Where are you?
“At the museum?” I responded quickly, then looked back up as the he let out a sigh.
"I'm sorry, you're right, my mistake. Would you mind following me to my office?"
"No problem." I said.
"This way, then.”
He turned, leading us through the grand entry of the museum, through a door into a corporate-looking area, then a long hallway. We passed empty office doors, a dark room, then another hall. Narrower. Dimmer.
Tony slowed. “Long way to walk just to sign a paper.”
The Auctioneer kept a fast pace. “We’ve had to shift space around because of a bad leak in our main offices. Not the best setup, but it will have to do.”
A wordless exchange passed between Tony and Michael. Tony shifted closer to me.
He reached a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. A stairwell. Concrete walls, no windows. A bare bulb flickered above.
“Just down here.”
Tony and Michael stood on either side of me, the auctioneer now cornered between us and the dark stairwell.
"How about we wait for you here while you go down and bring the right paper up to us?" Michael said.
The man blinked, letting out a laugh that was more a suggestion to relax than an expression of amusement. "I'll just go and get that."
He took a step back, still facing us but teetering dangerously close to the edge of the top stair.
Suddenly, Michael made a strange noise.
I turned sharply to see his eyes bulging, hands clawing at his throat, legs buckling. A thin wire glinted at his neck, someone behind him, pulling it tight.
"Michael!" I shouted as Tony roared, locked in a brutal struggle with a second attacker.
Tony slammed him against the wall, a sickening crunch echoing down the hall. The man slid to the floor.
I turned, Michael was still upright, but barely. His face had gone purple, his arms limp at his sides as the man behind him sawed the wire deeper into his neck.
I screamed.
The auctioneer lunged at me, grabbing my arm.
Tony didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the space in two strides and ripped the second attacker off Michael, slamming him to the ground, then burying a knife in his chest.
I blinked, tried to take a breath but It was like I forgot how.
The auctioneer let go of me and ran, shoes hammering the floor as he vanished down the hall.
Tony steadied me, then dropped to his knees beside Michael.
“Hey, come on man we gotta go,” he said, patting Michael’s cheek. “Mikey?” He patted his cheek harder.
Nothing.
Tony froze. His hand hovered there, still touching Michael’s face, then slowly drew back.
Voices rang out somewhere out of sight, fast, coming closer.
More men.
Tony grabbed my hand and pulled me after him the only way we could go.
Down the stairs.