It had taken less than ten seconds. Finch’s entire professional security detail was neutralized. The remaining two men, the ones from the table near the kitchen, now acted as crowd control. They did not have rifles, but they pulled out sleek black pistols fitted with suppressors. “Nobody move,” one of them yelled, his voice calm and authoritative, cutting through the panicked screams. “Stay on the floor. Hands where we can see them. This does not concern you. We are only here for him.” He gestured with his pistol toward Finch’s booth.
The leader, a tall man with pale, icy eyes and a severe haircut, who had been one of the two at the central table, strode toward the booth. He moved with the confident grace of a wolf closing in on its prey. He ignored the cowering patrons, his focus entirely on the billionaire huddled on the leather seat. Alistair Finch, the man who controlled empires with the tap of a screen, looked small and terrified. His face was ashen, his arrogance stripped away, replaced by the raw, primal fear of a man who had completely lost control.
Kate had used the initial burst of chaos to her advantage. While others screamed and dove under tables, she moved with purpose. She did not run away from the danger. She moved toward its periphery, using the panic as cover. She slid behind the long, marble-topped bar, crouching low. The bartender, a young man named Leo, was hiding there, trembling. “Call 911,” she whispered, her voice a blade of ice. “Keep the line open. Don’t speak. Just put the phone down.” Leo fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking too much to dial properly. Kate reached over, took the phone, dialed the three digits with practiced speed, hit send, and slid it back into his hands before he could protest.
She rose just enough to peer over the bar’s edge. The leader, whom she now mentally designated as Nikolai, based on his accent and bearing, was standing over Finch. “Mr. Finch,” he said, his voice laced with a faint Eastern European accent, “a pleasure to finally meet you in person. You will come with us now. No sudden movements, no heroics, and you will live to see tomorrow’s stock-market opening.” He reached down to grab Finch’s arm, and that was when Kate acted. She had no gun, no knife, no weapon of any kind. But the bar was her armory. Her hand closed around the neck of a heavy, full bottle of Grey Goose vodka. In one fluid motion, she rose from behind the bar. “Hey!” she shouted.