Chapter 12 - Ambush on the Fiftieth Floor
The security monitor on Grace’s desk flickered to life, casting an eerie blue glow across the office. On the screen, four masked figures dressed in tactical black gear stepped out of the private executive elevator on the fiftieth floor. Each carried suppressed automatic carbines, their movements disciplined and lethal.
"Professional mercenaries," Adrian murmured, his eyes narrowing as he instantly stood up, pulling Grace behind him. "Marcus didn't wait for a board vote. He’s trying to wipe out the evidence—and us."
"The panic button under the desk—" Grace started.
"Disabled," Adrian said, checking his phone. "They jammed our encrypted comms. We have thirty seconds before they breach this door."
Without a second of hesitation, Adrian grabbed a heavy steel fire extinguisher from the hallway alcove, positioning himself beside the heavy mahogany door of the office. He looked back at Grace, his expression fierce and protective.
"Get under the desk, Grace. Do not make a sound."
"I'm not hiding while you fight them alone," Grace whispered fiercely, grabbing a heavy brass paperweight from the desk. "We do this together."
Before Adrian could argue, the door handle rattled violently.
CRASH.
The heavy oak door exploded inward as a tactical flashbang grenade sailed across the room.
"Get down!" Adrian shouted, tackling Grace to the floor just as the grenade detonated with a blinding flash of white light and a deafening concussive roar that shattered the remaining glass in the bookcases.
Smoke billowed into the office. Through the haze, two masked operatives stepped through the splintered doorway, their weapons raised, scanning the room for targets.
Adrian moved like a panther. Springing up from the floor, he hurled the heavy steel fire extinguisher directly into the chest of the lead operative, sending him crashing backward into the wall. As the second operative swung his carbine around, Grace lunged forward with surprising agility, smashing the heavy brass paperweight down onto the mercenary's wrist with full force.
The man cried out in pain, dropping his weapon. Adrian swept his legs out from under him, pinning him to the carpet with a crushing knee lock.
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"Who sent you?" Adrian growled, pressing his thumb against the mercenary's jugular until the man gasped for air. "Marcus Vance?"
The mercenary spat blood onto the carpet, laughing behind his black balaclava. "You're too late, Whitmore. The board vote is at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Even if you survive tonight, you won't have a company left by noon."
