Chapter 3 - Seven Minutes Through Manhattan
Behind the antique mahogany cash register, Vincent lifted a brass cover and slammed down a red emergency beacon button labeled STERLING PRIORITY 1.
Four miles uptown, on the 60th floor of the Sterling Global Tower overlooking Central Park, Alexander Sterling was sitting at the head of a twenty-seat boardroom table, listening to a quarterly logistics acquisition briefing.
BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.
The encrypted titanium communicator resting on his velvet blotter flashed with a blinding crimson pulse:
ROSSI BAKERY — BIOMETRIC CODE FOUND.
Alexander froze.
The gold Montblanc pen in his hand snapped in half with a sharp crack.
Sixteen vice presidents and investment directors stopped talking instantly.
Alexander stood up so violently that his heavy leather armchair crashed backward against the floor-to-ceiling glass.
“Clear the elevators,” Alexander commanded, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying, concussive authority that made every executive in the room hold their breath. “Marcus, bring the armored convoy around to the front. We have seven minutes.”
Marcus Stone, Chief of Private Security, didn't ask questions. He keyed his radio, deploying four tactical Suburbans and two police motorcycle escorts.
Down Fifth Avenue, the convoy tore through traffic with sirens wailing, running red lights beneath the gray autumn sky.
Alexander sat in the back of the armored Maybach, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into his knees.
For six agonizing years, he had lived in an emotional wasteland. He had built towers, acquired fleets, and conquered markets, but every night he returned to a silent, cavernous penthouse, staring at the empty nursery he had never brought himself to dismantle.
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‘Please, God,’ Alexander prayed silently, his heart slamming against his ribs like a sledgehammer. ‘Let this not be a cruel shadow.’
At exactly seven minutes and twelve seconds, four black vehicles mounted the sidewalk outside Rossi’s Bakery.
