They managed to sneak out of the service exit of the law firm, blending into the rainy New York night. They could not take a taxi. Too trackable. They could not take the subway. Too many cameras. They walked. It was an intimate, terrifying journey through the city. Adrian, the billionaire who had never walked farther than his limo to his jet, was limping. Sarah, the waitress who stood on her feet for twelve hours a day, took the lead. “You’re limping,” Sarah noted as they cut through a dark alley in Chelsea. “Twisted my ankle on the stairs,” Adrian gritted out. “Lean on me.” “I’m fine.” “Don’t be an idiot, Adrian. Lean on me.” He hesitated, then draped his heavy arm over her shoulders. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through her. He smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and danger. “You’re stronger than you look, Sarah Bennett,” he murmured near her ear. “Carrying trays of heavy plates builds muscle,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
They were three blocks from the server farm when a black SUV screeched around the corner, its headlights blinding them. “They found us,” Adrian shouted. They dove behind a dumpster just as bullets sparked against the brick wall. “How?” Sarah cried. “We have no phones. No GPS.” Adrian checked his pockets. He pulled out his watch, a Patek Philippe worth a fortune. “The tracker,” he cursed. “It has an emergency beacon. Kane hacked the beacon.” He ripped the watch off his wrist and threw it as far as he could down the alley. “Go.”
They sprinted toward the old industrial building ahead. The SUV roared down the alley after them. They reached the heavy iron door of the Vanguard building. It was locked. “The code,” Sarah yelled. “What’s the code?” Adrian punched in numbers. Red light. “Damn it. They changed the shift codes.” The SUV was closing in. The window rolled down. A gun barrel emerged. Sarah looked at the keypad. It was an old model. The numbers one, nine, four, and five were slightly more worn than the others. “1945,” she said suddenly. “The wine. You ordered the 1945 Romanée-Conti. It’s your favorite year, isn’t it?” Adrian looked at her, stunned. “Yes.” He typed 1945. Enter. Green light. The door clicked open. They threw themselves inside just as bullets hammered against the iron door, sealing them in darkness.
They were safe for the moment, but they were trapped in a basement with no exit, and Victor Kane’s army was banging on the door. “We have maybe ten minutes before they blow the hinges,” Adrian said, his voice echoing in the vast, humming server room. “I need to upload the files. But, Sarah, the upload takes time, and once I start it, Kane will know exactly where we are.” “Do it,” Sarah said. She picked up a heavy metal pipe from the floor. She stood by the door. Adrian looked at her. A waitress holding a pipe against an army. “If we get out of this,” Adrian said, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m taking you to Paris for breakfast.” “Focus on the upload, billionaire,” Sarah said, gripping the pipe. “Breakfast can wait.”