Chapter 42 - THE GHOST IN THE MAYBACH
The heavy glass doors of the underground concourse shattered in an explosion of crystalline shrapnel as Daniel threw himself through behind Clara.
"Down! Keep low!" Daniel barked, grabbing Clara’s elbow and hauling her around the corner into the maze of luxury subterranean boutiques and subterranean subway walkways.
Alarms were blaring throughout the concourse—piercing klaxons that echoed off polished marble floors and storefront windows. Noah was shaking uncontrollably, his tiny face pressed so hard against Clara’s neck she could feel the frantic, bird-like flutter of his pulse against her collarbone.
"Clara... Clara, that woman," Noah choked out between ragged breaths. "Her face... she was in Mommy's photo album. Mommy told me never to look at her picture. She said that was the woman who ate the sun."
Clara’s heart stopped. She glanced back at Daniel, whose jaw was clenched so hard the tendons stood out like iron cables. "Elizabeth Hawthorne," Clara breathed. "Victoria faked Elizabeth’s death fifteen years ago. Or Elizabeth killed Victoria and took her place. Daniel, who the hell is in that car?"
"Neither," Daniel said grimly, ejecting the spent magazine from the captured Glock and slapping in a fresh one he’d stripped from the sergeant’s belt. "Worse. Elizabeth Hawthorne was the architect. Victoria was only the face on Wall Street. Elizabeth was the shadow operative who built the Hawthorne Syndicate's international money laundering web. When Victoria died on that broadcast an hour ago, Elizabeth stepped out from the grave to reclaim the assets."
"And Noah is the asset," Clara whispered, pulling the boy closer.
"Noah is the *master key*," Daniel corrected, his eyes scanning the corridors ahead. "The vault beneath the Federal Reserve—the offshore blind trusts—they aren't locked with passwords. Victoria encoded the biometrics to Noah's retinal pattern and voiceprint. If Elizabeth doesn't get him alive, four hundred billion dollars stays frozen forever."
Heavy tactical boots pounded on the marble stairs behind them. The beam of high-powered tactical flashlights cut through the dim concourse.
"Target sighted in Sector 4," a cold, synthesized voice echoed over a tactical radio. "Non-lethal on the child. Terminate the escort. Repeat: terminate the male and female immediately."
"We can't take the subway platforms," Daniel whispered, pulling Clara toward a locked steel maintenance door marked *MTA High Voltage / Authorized Personnel Only*. "The transit police are already compromised. If they box us into a train, we’re dead in a tube."
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Daniel raised the confiscated sidearm and fired two rounds straight through the heavy brass deadbolt. The lock disintegrated in a shower of sparks. He slammed his shoulder against the door, breaking the frame, and shoved Clara and Noah into the stinking, ozone-choked darkness of the subterranean train tunnels below.
***
