Chapter 22
The underground subterranean parking garage beneath Blackwood Tower was lit by harsh, flickering fluorescent tubes that hummed a low, discordant note in the concrete cavern. Ezra’s black Maybach glided smoothly into its designated private stall, the heavy tires crunching faintly over loose gravel.
Pavl Gorski was waiting by the reinforced elevator doors, holding a thick manila folder and a steaming cup of black coffee. As Ezra and Nessa stepped out of the vehicle, Pavl hurried over, his brow furrowed with deep concern.
"Boss, you need to see this right now," Pavl said, handing the folder directly to Ezra instead of his usual casual greeting. "The Zurich ping wasn't random. Someone tried to access our primary escrow accounts late last night using an old master override code—a code that only my father and three former board members ever possessed."
"My father's code," Ezra stated flatly, flipping open the folder as they walked toward the private elevator. The pages inside revealed detailed financial routing numbers tracking funds from a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands straight back to a dormant shipping warehouse in the western docks.
Nessa scanned the documents over Ezra's shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about money. Look at the shipping weights on these manifests. They aren't moving legal foundation equipment. Those containers weigh thousands of pounds apiece. That's heavy-grade tactical hardware or contraband."
"Which means someone inside our own reformed organization is trying to rebuild the old syndicate pipeline behind our backs," Ezra said, his voice dropping into an arctic chill.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. They stepped inside, and Pavl punched the top-floor executive suite code. But before the doors could fully close, a heavy metal wrench was jammed violently between the sliding panels, forcing them back open with a grinding shriek.
Three men in dark maintenance uniforms stood in the corridor, their faces partially hidden beneath baseball caps. But the way their weight was distributed—heels light, shoulders squared, hands hovering dangerously close to their utility belts—gave away their true identity instantly. They weren't maintenance workers. They were elite mercenaries.
"Well, well," the lead man sneered, pulling a silenced automatic pistol from his waistband. "The retired kingpin and his pet musician. Boss wants a word."
Ezra’s hand instinctively moved toward his jacket, but Nessa was already in motion. With terrifying, fluid speed, she pivoted on her heel, drove a blistering front kick straight into the lead mercenary’s chest, and sent him crashing backward into the elevator wall. The pistol flew from his grip, clattering loudly against the metal floor.
The second assailant lunged forward with a tactical knife, but Ezra intercepted him mid-stride, delivering a brutal, bone-shattering right hook that dropped the man instantly.
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Pavl lunged forward to tackle the third attacker, pinning him against the concrete pillar while Nessa swept his legs out from under him with a textbook low kick. Within four seconds, the entire ambush was neutralized.
Nessa stood over the groaning lead mercenary, her breathing completely steady, her eyes blazing with cold fury. "Tell whoever sent you," she whispered, leaning down close to his ear, "that they picked the wrong building."
