The heavy steel elevator doors didn't slide open. They tore outward with the agonizing screech of buckling metal, vomiting a cloud of concrete dust and twenty armed men into the pitch-black hallway.
Tactical flashlights cut frantic, blinding arcs through the darkness. The beams caught the shattered glass of the penthouse windows, the overturned leather chairs, and the blood already pooling on the Persian rug from the first assassin.
They didn't catch Michael.
He was simply gone. One second, his chest was pressed against Jane’s back, his breath hot on her ear. The next, the air displaced, leaving behind nothing but the sharp scent of bergamot and a terrifying, absolute silence.
Jane didn't scream. She didn't drop to the floor and cover her head. That was what prey did, and she had spent
