Chapter 6 - THE ROSARY'S SECRET
The phone call ended with a sharp click, leaving only the sound of the rain lashing against Chloe’s bedroom window.
"He wants us to walk directly into his corporate headquarters," Grant said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. His voice was no longer frantic; it had crystallized into pure, deadly resolve. "It’s a fortress. Private security on every floor. Keycard access only for the elevators."
"They expect you to come in through the front doors, armed and angry," I said, my mind shifting into the cold, calculated logistics mode that had kept me alive overseas. "We aren't going to do that."
"How else do we get to the penthouse?"
"Ward Meridian built that tower three years ago," I said, moving quickly toward the door. "It’s a mixed-use skyscraper. The bottom four floors are retail. That means they require massive daily deliveries. I know how modern freight receiving docks operate, Grant. We aren't taking the executive elevator. We’re taking the service spine."
We left the estate in the SUV, speeding back toward downtown Chicago. The skyline loomed ahead, a jagged mountain range of glass and steel cutting into the stormy night. The Ward Meridian tower was a massive, imposing obelisk of dark glass near the river.
We pulled into the subterranean service alley two blocks away. Grant parked the SUV in the shadows, checking his firearm and sliding an extra magazine into his pocket.
"I don't have a weapon," I noted, watching him prepare.
Grant reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a sleek, compact 9mm. He handed it to me. "Safety is on the left. Keep it pointed at the floor until you need to point it at a chest."
I took the gun. Its heavy, cold weight felt horribly familiar.
We approached the loading docks on foot. Two armed private security guards were stationed by the massive rolling doors, chatting and drinking coffee under the harsh halogen lights.
"Distract them," Grant whispered, melting into the shadows behind a dumpster.
I took a deep breath, stepping out into the light. I was still wearing my wet, ruined Birch & Stone uniform. I walked briskly toward the guards, holding up my hands.
"Hey!" I shouted, projecting panic perfectly. "Hey, I need help! My manager at the restaurant sent me down here to verify a wine delivery for Mr. Ward, and I think someone is breaking into a car on the upper level!"
The guards frowned, their hands dropping to their holsters. The uniform sold the lie.
"Wait here," the taller guard ordered, signaling his partner. They jogged past me toward the upper ramp.
The second they were out of sight, Grant emerged from the shadows like a ghost, slipping past the security desk and overriding the dock doors with a manual release lever. I ducked inside after him, the heavy door sliding shut behind us.
We were in the belly of the beast.
"Service elevators are this way," I whispered, leading him through the labyrinth of concrete corridors, dodging night-shift janitorial staff. We found the heavy metal doors of the freight elevator.
I bypassed the keycard reader by ripping the cover off the control panel and crossing the override wires—a trick I had learned to start stalled supply trucks in Damascus. The doors hissed open.
We stepped inside and I hit the button for the 60th floor. The penthouse.
The elevator groaned as it ascended, the mechanical hum vibrating through the floorboards.
"When the doors open," Grant said, his eyes fixed on the floor indicator, "stay behind me. Elias will have Julian waiting. Julian is arrogant, but he's fast."
"Grant," I said quietly.
He looked at me.
"If Julian Mercer has my sister... if she’s really the whistleblower who sent you the bracelet..." I swallowed the knot of fear in my throat. "Please don't kill him before we find out where she is."
Grant’s expression softened for a fraction of a second. "I promise."
The elevator chimed. Floor 60.
The heavy doors slid open, revealing a breathtaking, opulent penthouse lobby. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-battered city.
But we weren't alone.
Julian Mercer stood in the center of the marble floor, flanked by four heavily armed men. Julian wasn't wearing his tailored suit jacket anymore; he wore a tactical vest over his dress shirt, and a smirk that made my skin crawl.
"The waitress," Julian laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. "I told Elias you two would try the service elevator. Predictable."
Grant raised his weapon instantly, but four laser sights immediately painted his chest.
"Drop it, Grant," Julian ordered. "Or they turn you into Swiss cheese right in front of the help."
Grant didn't lower his gun. His eyes locked onto Julian with absolute hatred. "Where is my daughter, Julian?"
"Chloe is perfectly safe," Julian smiled, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an object, letting it dangle from his fingers on a thick gold chain.
It was a heavy, silver pocket watch, deeply scratched on the casing.
Grant’s breath hitched.
"Recognize it?" Julian taunted. "It belonged to your father, Grant. Elias kept it all these years as a souvenir of the day he was chased out of Chicago."
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Julian tossed the pocket watch onto the marble floor. It skittered to a stop at Grant’s feet.
"Elias doesn't need you anymore, Grant," Julian sneered, raising his own weapon and pointing it directly at my head. "And he certainly doesn't need the bookkeeper's daughter asking questions."
