NO WAY OUT BUT THROUGH

The Gala

Slade stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his bow tie.

The tuxedo was borrowed from Dante's closet—black, tailored, expensive. It fit well enough. The holster beneath his left arm was invisible beneath the jacket. The pistol was a compact Sig Sauer, easy to conceal, easy to draw.

Sloane was in the other room, zipping up a black gown that hugged her lean frame. A small knife was strapped to her thigh beneath the fabric. Her hair was up, revealing the sharp lines of her jaw and the cold focus in her eyes.

Kane was waiting by the door, dressed as a waiter. He'd swapped his prosthetic for a more discreet model, one that didn't click when he walked. His rifle was disassembled in a catering van parked outside.

Lyric was at her monitors, feeding them information through earpieces. "Marcus Webb is in the ballroom. He's holding court near the stage. Flanked by two bodyguards. Both armed. Both professional."

Slade adjusted his earpiece. "What's his routine?"

"He makes a speech at 9:00. Then he mingles. He's known for hitting on attractive women. That's your opening."

Slade looked at Sloane. "You're up."

She smiled. It was a cold, professional smile. "I've got this."

---

The Grand Verance Hotel was a hive of wealth and privilege.

Chandeliers blazed overhead. Champagne flowed in crystal glasses. Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns mingled beneath the vaulted ceiling, their laughter echoing off the marble walls.

Slade moved through the crowd, scanning faces. He spotted Marcus Webb near the stage—a tall, handsome man in his late forties, with silver hair and a dazzling smile. He was surrounded by admirers, his every word met with laughter and approval.

Sloane approached from the left. She moved like a predator, her heels silent on the carpet. She waited for a gap in the crowd, then stepped into Webb's line of sight.

He noticed her immediately. Of course he did. Sloane was stunning in her black gown, her dark hair swept up, her eyes sharp and knowing.

"Marcus Webb," she said, extending a hand. "I'm a huge admirer of your work."

Webb took her hand, his smile widening. "And you are?"

"Call me Sloane. I'm in acquisitions. Tech. I've been following your company for years."

"Acquisitions. That's interesting. Tell me more."

The conversation flowed. Slade watched from across the room, sipping champagne, his eyes never leaving the pair.

Lyric's voice came through the earpiece. "His phone is in his right jacket pocket. Standard biometric lock. You'll need his thumbprint and a retinal scan."

"How do we get the retinal scan?"

"I'll handle it," Sloane said. Her voice was barely audible, hidden by the crowd's noise. "Just be ready when I give the signal."

Slade moved closer. He positioned himself near a pillar, close enough to intervene if things went wrong.

Webb was leaning in, his hand on Sloane's arm. She laughed at something he said, touching his chest with her fingers. The move was practiced, intimate, disarming.

"You're fascinating," Webb said. "I'd love to continue this conversation somewhere more private."

"Of course. Lead the way."

Webb excused himself from his admirers and guided Sloane toward a side door. His bodyguards followed at a discreet distance.

Slade followed.

They entered a private lounge—leather chairs, a wet bar, dark wood paneling. Webb closed the door behind them, leaving the bodyguards outside.

Sloane moved closer, her hand tracing Webb's chest. "I've wanted to meet you for so long."

"And now you have." Webb's hands went to her waist. "What would you like to do next?"

She smiled. "I'd like to see your phone."

Webb blinked. "My phone?"

"Your phone. Unlock it. Now."

His expression shifted. "I don't understand."

"Your phone, Marcus. The one with the biometric lock. Unlock it, or I'll break your fingers and unlock it myself."

Webb laughed. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

The knife appeared in Sloane's hand, pressed against Webb's throat. His smile vanished.

"Who are you?"

"Someone you don't want to cross. Unlock the phone."

Webb's hands shook as he pulled out his phone. He pressed his thumb to the sensor. The screen lit up.

Sloane grabbed it and held it up to his face. The retinal scanner beeped. Access granted.

Slade entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Good work."

Webb's eyes went wide. "Slade Crowe. I've heard about you."

"Then you know why I'm here." Slade took the phone and pocketed it. "You're going to forget this ever happened. You're going to continue your gala, make your speech, and act like nothing is wrong. If you don't—"

"I'll kill you," Sloane said. "Slowly."

Webb nodded, his face pale. "I understand."

Slade stepped closer. "I also need information. The Society. The Event. What do you know?"

Webb's eyes darted between them. "I don't know much. I'm a junior member. I fund their operations. I don't run them."

"Who does?"

"The Master. I've never met him. No one has. He communicates through intermediaries. The Bishop is one of them."

"Where is the Bishop?"

"I don't know. He's always on the move. But he's planning something big. Something at the Opera House. Three days from now."

Slade's jaw tightened. "What kind of something?"

"A gathering. All the members. A vote. The Master is going to announce something. I don't know what."

Slade exchanged a look with Sloane.

"You're going to get us an invitation," Slade said. "To that gathering."

Webb shook his head. "I can't. It's invitation-only. The Master chooses who attends."

"Then you'll tell him you're bringing a guest. A new recruit. Someone you've been cultivating."

"What would I tell him about you?"

"Tell him the truth," Slade said. "Tell him Slade Crowe wants to join the Society."

---

They left Webb in the lounge, shaken but alive.

The phone was safely in Slade's pocket, its data already being transmitted to Lyric through a secure link.

"His biometrics are in," Lyric's voice said. "We can access the Opera House server now. But Slade... the gathering in three days. That's dangerous. All the members in one place. It's a trap."

"Or an opportunity," Slade said.

Sloane walked beside him, her heels clicking on the marble floor. "You're really going to walk into a room full of Society members and announce you want to join?"

"I'm going to walk into a room full of Society members and destroy them from the inside."

"That's suicidal."

"Probably. But it's the only way to end this."

They stepped out of the hotel and into the night. The catering van was waiting. Kane was in the driver's seat.

"Get in," he said. "We've got company."

Slade looked back. Two figures in black suits were approaching from the hotel entrance. Fast. Purposeful.

"Bishop's men," Sloane said.

"Get in the van."

Slade jumped in. The van roared to life, peeling away from the curb.

The figures didn't follow. They just watched, phones in hand, communicating.

Slade's phone buzzed.

**Unknown:** Well played. You got Webb's biometrics. You found the gathering. But you're still running in my maze.

**Unknown:** The seventh circle begins now. The invitation to the gathering is a trap. You'll be walking into a room full of enemies. If you survive, you'll have earned the right to face the Master. If you don't...

**Unknown:** Tick tock.

Slade closed the message.

"We have three days," he said. "Three days to prepare. Three days to find a way to survive that gathering."

Kane looked at him. "And your father?"

Slade's eyes hardened. "He's the reason I'm doing this. I'm going to save him. Then I'm going to kill the Master."

The van drove on, carrying them toward an uncertain future.

The maze was getting smaller. And the Minotaur was waiting.