I threw myself into the passenger seat, setting the suppressed pistol on the dashboard while Marcus slammed the car into drive and hit the accelerator. The tires screeched against the slick concrete as we shot out of the garage exit, narrowly missing a row of responding police cruisers swarming the front gates.

“Four minutes,” Marcus said, his hands tight on the steering wheel as he wove through late-night downtown traffic. “We have less than four minutes before they take out Dr. Vance.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for the Plaza Hotel front desk.

“Plaza Hotel, how may I direct your call?” a polite receptionist answered.

“This is Captain Caroline Harrington, United States Navy,” I said rapidly. “Listen to me very carefully. You have an active threat on the 14th floor. Room 1402. I need you to trigger the fire alarm for the upper floors immediately and evacuate Room 1402.”

“Ma’am? Is this a joke?”

“It is not a joke!” I yelled into the receiver. “Trigger the alarm or people are going to die in your lobby in three minutes!”

“I… I can’t do that without manager authorization—”

I hung up, cursing under my breath. “She’s not going to do it.”

“We’re two blocks away,” Marcus said, running a red light as the city skyscrapers blurred past us. “Look!”

Ahead of us, the towering marble facade of the Plaza Hotel loomed under the streetlights.

Parked near the side entrance was an unmarked black van with dark tinted windows—the classic signature of a contract tactical team.

“There,” I pointed. “They’re already inside.”

Marcus slammed the brakes, bringing the sedan to a sliding halt in the hotel’s loading bay.

I grabbed the pistol from the dashboard, concealing it under Judith Mercer’s heavy cashmere shawl, which was still wrapped around my shoulders over my torn red silk blouse.

“Stay in the car,” I told Marcus. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m coming with you,” Marcus insisted, reaching for the door handle.

“No,” I said firmly, looking him in the eyes. “Daniel died because I couldn’t protect my crew. I’m not letting his brother die in a hotel hallway. Stay here and keep the engine running.”

Without waiting for his answer, I bolted through the hotel’s side service doors.

The quiet, carpeted interior of the Plaza Hotel was a stark contrast to the violence at the club. Classical piano music played softly over the lobby speakers, and a couple in evening wear stood near the elevator banks, completely unaware of the threat hovering fourteen floors above them.

I ran straight past them toward the emergency stairwell, ignoring the elevator entirely. Taking an elevator in an active shooter situation was a death sentence.

Fourteen flights of stairs.

With a torn back, a damaged shoulder, and a lungs burning like fire, I began to climb.

One floor. Two floors. Three.

My back throbbed with every step, the deep surgical scars straining against my skin.

Eight floors. Nine. Ten.

My vision blurred at the edges, the image of Daniel’s face flashing through my mind—his last words as the smoke filled the engineering bay: “Get the logs out, Captain. Make them pay.”

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

I burst through the door onto the 14th floor, my gun raised, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The hallway was lined with thick gold-patterned carpet and soft wall sconces.

At the far end of the hall, standing in front of Room 1402, was a man dressed in a dark uniform holding a silenced firearm fitted with a door-breaching tool.

He was thirty seconds away from kicking down the door.

“Hey!” I shouted into the silent hallway.

The assassin turned his head.

And I pulled the trigger.