Chapter 7 - The Ambush at Harbor Towers
The rain was falling in heavy sheets over the Boston harbor as the black armored Range Rover tore through the industrial docks, its engine roaring like a caged beast.
Naomi sat behind the wheel, her eyes cool and focused as she navigated the slick, narrow streets at eighty miles an hour. She executed a flawless power slide around a semi-truck, bringing the heavy vehicle straight up to the entrance of the Whitmore Harbor Tower.
Beside her, Ethan was finishing a phone call with his legal team. “I have the original trust deed right here. Vance’s proxy vote is illegal under Section 4 of the charter.”
“We have five minutes,” Naomi said, checking her mirrors. “The building perimeter looks too quiet.”
She scanned the glass lobby. The regular security guards were missing. Standing near the elevators were three large men in dark raincoats, their hands tucked inside their pockets.
“Stay in the car,” Naomi commanded softly, reaching beneath her seat to retrieve a sleek, high-grade stun device and a tactical baton.
“Naomi, those aren't corporate guards,” Ethan said, panic rising in his chest. “Vance hired muscle to keep me out of the building until 5:00 PM!”
“I know,” Naomi said quietly. “Wait ten seconds after I clear the doors, then follow me straight to the private elevator.”
She unbuckled her belt, opened the door, and stepped out into the pouring rain.
She walked toward the glass doors of the tower with calm, deliberate confidence. Her dark navy suit was sleek, her posture perfectly upright.
The three goons inside watched her approach, one of them chuckling as he stepped out to block the entrance.
“Building’s closed, lady,” the lead goon said, reaching out a large, heavy hand to push her back into the rain. “Private meeting upstairs.”
Naomi didn't argue.
As his hand came within inches of her chest, Naomi caught his thumb, twisted it back toward his wrist, and delivered a swift, brutal side-kick directly to his kneecap.
CRACK.
The man collapsed to the wet pavement with a muffled howl of pain.
The other two goons gasped, pulling heavy iron pipes from their raincoats and rushing her simultaneously.
Naomi moved like lightning. She ducked beneath the first swing, her tactical baton expanding with a sharp metallic CLACK. She struck the first man’s collarbone, instantly disarming him, then delivered a spinning back-elbow to the second man’s jaw.
Both men hit the floor within four seconds.
Inside the glass lobby, a fourth enforcer guarding the elevator panel panicked, drawing a taser. Naomi sprinted across the polished floor, slid across the marble like an ice skater, and swept his legs out from under him before he could pull the trigger.
She stood up, smoothed her lapels, and pressed the elevator call button.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Naomi looked back toward the street. Ethan was standing near the Range Rover, his mouth slightly open, staring at four heavy goons groaning on the floor.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Naomi called out gently, holding the elevator door open. “Your meeting is on the 40th floor.”
Ethan snapped out of his shock, pulled his leather briefcase tight against his side, and ran into the lobby. As he stepped into the elevator beside her, he looked at her with pure, unadulterated awe.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Ethan breathed, catching his breath.
May you like
Naomi looked up at the digital floor indicator as the elevator rocketed toward the top floor.
“You’re on my good side, Ethan,” she whispered, her hand gently brushing against his. “That’s the safest place in the world.”
