Chapter 5: The Glass Fortress
The Vanguard Foundation Gallery sat in the heart of the Arts District, a sleek, brutalist structure of smoked glass and black steel. In the early hours of the morning, masked by the relentless Seattle downpour, it looked like a monolithic tomb.
I parked the Mercedes three blocks away, pulling the hood of my dark sweatshirt low over my jaggedly cut hair. The cold rain soaked through my clothes instantly, but the chill was nothing compared to the ice running through my veins. The heavy Glock pressed reassuringly against my hip. I was no longer a victim in a gilded cage; I was a phantom, moving with singular, deadly purpose.
I bypassed the grand entrance and slipped down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway that led to the loading docks. There, hidden behind a set of dumpsters, was a nondescript steel door used exclusively by maintenance.
My hands were steady as I swiped the platinum keycard. The card reader blinked red for a terrifying second before turning a solid, welcoming green. The heavy lock clicked open.
I stepped into the dim, utilitarian corridors of the gallery's underbelly. I knew these halls. I had spent weeks here a year ago, painstakingly reviewing the blueprints to upgrade the climate control systems to protect Richard’s "investments." I knew that the security hub was located directly above the sub-basement vault, accessible via a narrow utility stairwell that bypassed the main elevators.
Moving silently, I drew the Glock, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor. The air was thick with the hum of servers and industrial air conditioners.
As I rounded the corner to the security hub, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots.
I pressed my back flat against the concrete wall, holding my breath. A lone guard—one of Richard's private paramilitary men, dressed in tactical black gear—was pacing in front of the reinforced door of the security room. He had an earpiece in and an assault rifle slung across his chest.
If you see his men, you drop them, Marcus had said.
I couldn't engage him in a firefight; the noise would trigger alarms across the grid. I needed a ghost's touch. I waited until his pacing took him away from the door, his back turned to me.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out from cover, closing the distance in three rapid, silent strides. Before he could turn, I raised the heavy steel butt of the Glock and brought it down with all my strength against the base of his skull.
He dropped instantly, crumpling to the floor with a heavy thud, unconscious before he even hit the linoleum.
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My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I dragged his dead weight toward the security door, grabbed his right hand, and pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner.
The door hissed open. I stepped into the nerve center of Richard’s empire, locking the door behind me. I was in.
