Chapter 3 - Shadows on the Grand Staircase
They slipped through the lower pantry and emerged into the cavernous shadows of the main kitchen. The stainless-steel counters gleamed under the pale moonlight streaming through high arched windows.
Grayson scanned the room, his mind racing. "Sterling has a satellite phone in his briefcase in the study," he whispered softly, his breath hot against Delia’s ear. "If we can get to it, I can call the Coast Guard detail at Newport. They answer directly to federal command—Sterling's payroll can't touch them."
Delia nodded once. She walked over to her cleaning cart, which had been left parked near the pantry doors. To anyone walking past, it looked undisturbed. But Delia’s eyes scanned the arrangement of supplies with clinical precision.
Someone had searched her cart.
The bottle of industrial degreaser had been shifted half an inch to the left. The spare trash bags were slightly rumpled.
She quickly signed to Grayson with her hands, a rapid series of fluid gestures she had used since childhood: Someone was here. They know we're moving.
Before Grayson could process the warning, the kitchen double doors swung open.
A burly guard holding a suppressed submachine gun stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the shadows. He froze when he saw the cleaning cart out of place.
"Hey! Who's—"
Before the guard could finish the sentence, Delia didn't hesitate. She grabbed a full, heavy glass bottle of industrial floor stripper from the bottom shelf of her cart and hurled it across the room. It shattered against a copper pots rack with an explosive crash of breaking glass and chemical fumes.
The guard whipped his weapon toward the noise, blinded momentarily by the spray.
That split-second distraction was all Grayson needed. He lunged from the darkness like a striking panther, tackling the guard to the tile floor. A muffled struggle ensued—the thud of bone on stone, a choked gasp, and then sudden, absolute stillness.
Grayson stood up slowly, wiping blood from his lip, his chest heaving. He looked down at the unconscious man, then up at Delia.
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"You've got good aim," Grayson panted, a grim smile breaking through his tension.
Delia didn't smile back. She bent down, quickly stripped the guard’s tactical radio and spare ammunition magazine, and handed them to Grayson. Then she pointed toward the grand staircase. Time was running out.
