Chapter 25 Marshall
MARSHALL
Marshall reached into the cup holder, picked up the discarded earpiece, and rolled it between his fingers. He wasn’t ready to put it back in yet.
All he knew was that the woman he loved was inside a building full of people who thought threats were an acceptable negotiation tactic—and he was out here on a highway feeling sorry for himself. That ended now.
He slid the comm back into his ear. Static, then Stephen’s voice burst through, half-panicked. “Marshall? Finally. You ghosted me, you jerk. What’s your status? I just lost your tracker and—”
“I’m fine,” he cut in, voice steady in a way he didn’t quite feel. “And I’m going back in.”
“Back—are you insane? They kicked you out. Security’s—”
“Stephen.” He let all the steel he had thread through the man’s name. “Norah’s still in there. Hale’s still in there. Sidarov’s people are somewhere in the mix. I’m not sitting this out in a parking lot.”
Silence hummed for a heartbeat on the line. Then a soft, resigned sigh. “Okay. Okay. Ross is going to blow a gasket, but . . . okay. I’ll get you a blind spot on the west service entrance. You’ll have maybe sixty seconds before the cameras sweep.”
“Sixty’s enough,” he said.
It had to be. He tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed his foot down, the SUV surging forward, city lights rushing up to meet him like the opening of a second chance.
“I’m calling in backup. Who’s available?” he asked his computer guru.
Stephen clicked his tongue in response. “Honestly? I don’t know. The team is still in Geneva and everything’s exploded into chaos over there.”
Marshall’s jaw shifted. “Define exploded.”
“You haven’t seen the news?” Stephen’s keys clattered in the background as he switched systems. “A Russian missile apparently crossed into Swiss airspace four hours ago—disappeared over Lake Geneva. Nobody can figure out whether it was a glitch, a provocation, or a hijack. The whole summit went into lockdown. The President was evacuated. Every global intel team is scrambled.”
A cold, precise dread slid down Marshall’s spine.
“And our people?” he asked.
“Dark,” Stephen said. “All of them. Ross, Tank, Jackson, Will, Pierce—everyone who deployed for the summit. Comms are jammed or rerouted or something. Joey and I can’t get a ping on their sat-links or their trackers. It’s like the whole region fell into a black hole.”
Marshall absorbed that, muscles tightening. The world was already a tinderbox. A missile strike—accidental or not—was the kind of spark the Syndicate lived for.
And if Ross and the others were caught in the chaos . . .
Stephen blew out another shaky breath. “I’m still trying to get someone. We’ve got a couple guys who stayed stateside. But until I get someone, it’s just you.”
Just him. Against Hale. Against Sidarov. Against whatever was unfolding in the marble guts of that hotel.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Keep trying,” he said, voice dropping into something razor-edged and certain. “And patch me through the second you reach anyone.”
Marshall forced himself to breathe evenly as he turned off the highway, weaving through late-night traffic with mechanical precision.
The SUV’s headlights skimmed over concrete medians and empty sidewalks, the city rising around him again in glints of glass and steel.
Each passing block tightened the coil in his chest. He wasn’t moving fast enough.
He was moving too fast. Every instinct warred with the next.
Stephen’s typing crackled faintly through the comm—rapid, staccato, his fingers flying across multiple systems. Then a sharp exhale. “No answer from Ryder. Or Miranda.” Another pause, longer this time. “Geneva’s still blacked out on the system. No signal, no patch, nothing. I’ll ping Jeremy next.”
Something cold unspooled at the base of Marshall’s spine, spreading outward like frost.
“Try Ross again,” he said, voice low.
“I did,” Stephen replied. “Twice. Straight to voicemail.”
Marshall flexed his hand against the steering wheel.
He should’ve been focused on the route Stephen was giving him—timing the camera sweeps, mapping the blind spots—but the only thing he could hear was that silence.
Black Tower didn’t go dark. Not like this.
Not all at once. Not on a night when Sidarov’s people were operating in their city.
The SUV idled at a red light. He could feel his pulse in his teeth.
“Stephen,” he said quietly, “something’s wrong.”
“I know,” Stephen muttered, his fingers audibly flying. “But—wait. Landon’s picking up. Patching him through.”
There was a click, then Landon’s voice cut in—steady, alert, and blessedly present. “Marshall. I’m on comms. What do you need?”
Relief hit him sharper than he expected. Someone had answered. Someone on his side.
“I’m heading back inside the gala,” Marshall said, checking his mirrors as he took a tight corner. “Norah’s in danger. Hale’s involved. Sidarov’s people are active. I need backup on location.”
“Understood,” Landon replied immediately, no hesitation, no request for clarification. “Drop me a pin. I can be there in ten.”
Ten minutes. Fast. Competent. Exactly what he needed.
A faint, involuntary thought flickered—why Landon, when no one else had picked up?—but Marshall shoved it aside. He didn’t have the luxury of indulging gut paranoia right now. Not when Norah was inside that building with people who would kill to send a message.
“Copy,” Marshall said, exhaling once through his nose. “See you in ten.”
He cut the line before Landon could say anything else, focus narrowing to the asphalt, the perimeter map in his head, and the woman he refused to leave behind again.
The SUV turned the final corner, skirting around the hotel toward the loading docks. The hotel’s front entrance rolled past on his left. Too many eyes. No chance going in there. Not without getting cuffed and thrown out again.
The service wing was better. The alley was shadowed and empty beyond a lone staff member on a smoke break who didn’t care about tuxedoed intruders. He eased the SUV into a dark corner and cut the engine.
Stephen’s voice cut in. “You’ll have a blind spot on the west loading dock entrance in thirty seconds. But after that? You’re flying dark. I’ll keep comms open, but . . . be careful, Marsh.”
He didn’t answer. His pulse had already shifted into the slow, precise rhythm of a man about to break every rule he’d ever followed. Going in alone was suicide.
He stepped out of the SUV and slipped into the shadows along the loading bay. Cold air rushed against his face. The metal door ahead stood slightly ajar—propped open by a catering dolly.
Perfect.
He moved silently, pressed himself to the wall, and slipped through. He wished now he’d listened to more of Jackson’s lectures about silent approaches.
Inside, the concrete corridor was narrow, cool, and cluttered with crates of champagne, stacked linen, and AV cases. He took three steps deeper into the service hallway when low voices drifted from around the corner. They were strained and edged with panic.
He slowed, senses narrowing to a razor’s edge.
“Hurry up. Sidarov wants it gone tonight.”
The voice floated from the next corridor. He eased forward, every movement silent and deliberate. When he reached the corner, he angled himself just enough to see.
Two men in dark suits were rolling a catering cart toward a service exit. A long, lumpy package was strapped tightly on top, the nylon stretched and buckled with efficient brutality. Even before he saw anything else, Marshall’s gut bottomed out.
No. No, God—please, no.
For a split second, the world narrowed to a single horror-struck thought. Norah.
He edged closer, pulse kicking hard, breath tight in his chest. The men adjusted their grip, shifting the weight as they maneuvered the cart around a pallet, and the motion jostled the edge of the tarp.
Just enough.
A limp hand slid into view. Definitely not Norah’s slender fingers.
There was a ring on the index finger that Marshall immediately identified as Harrington’s signet ring. The pretentious jerk always wore it.
Marshall’s breath left him in a hard, silent exhale. Harrington. Executed. Hauled out like trash. Exactly—exactly—the way Norah would be if she pushed back, if she said the wrong thing, if she hesitated.
The world bled red at the edges. He braced a hand on the concrete block wall, fingers digging in to keep himself anchored, to keep from launching forward and snapping both men’s necks before they reached the exit. Fury and fear collided so violently inside him he almost couldn’t tell them apart.
Norah had been in a room with these people. Locked in with a monster who didn’t flinch at executions.
“Loose ends,” one of the men muttered as they pushed through the door. “Should’ve kept his mouth shut.”
Marshall closed his eyes for half a second, steadying himself, then opened them again. There would be no more loose ends. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The men pushed the cart through a back exit, the door slamming quietly behind them. The hallway fell silent.
Marshall straightened, shoulders square, jaw set. He pulled in a breath, steadied himself, and moved deeper into the hotel’s service guts. Past the housekeeping hallway. Past catering prep. The concrete corridors gave way to carpeted, but unadorned, passageways. Past the curtained side rooms.
He was done being subtle. Every step forward was a promise.
I’m going to find her.
I’m going to get her out.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
At the far end of the corridor, light spilled from the ballroom. Music swelled. The elegant sound of the string quartet was grotesquely at odds with the fact that a man had just been murdered on the property.
His comm hissed softly, then Joey’s voice pushed through, tight with urgency. “Marshall, It’s me. Stephen is looking at Geneva for me. We’ve got Landon on the board—he’s en route from the parking garage. If you just wait two minutes—”
“No.”
“Marshall.” She lowered her voice, leaning into authority she rarely used with him. “Don’t go in blind. We don’t know how many Syndicate assets are inside. We don’t know what Hale told security. If something happens to you—”
He halted just shy of the ballroom threshold, shoulders rigid, jaw tight enough to crack. “If I wait, Joey . . . what happens to her?”
Silence. Heavy. Pained.
“You don’t know she’s in immediate danger,” she said quietly, almost pleading. “Please. Let Landon meet you. Don’t make me patch Flint in and tell him you went rogue in a flipping tux.”
A humorless breath escaped him. “If Flint asks, tell him it wasn’t the tux.”
“Marshall—”
“I’m not losing her,” he said. Not again. Not like this. “Patch me into cameras if you can. Otherwise, stay on comms.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it’s mine to make.”
Marshall reached the threshold. He stepped forward, severing the last chance to turn back.
Straightening his jacket, he set his jaw and walked out of the shadows, back into the glittering room—no longer a guest, no longer an observer, but a soldier with one objective.
Get Norah Winslow out alive.