Chapter 102 The Chase
Daisy’s POV
I did not wait for Brittany to process what I had just told her. I did not wait for a command or a nod of approval. I was already moving toward the stage exit before I even finished the sentence. My heart was a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs as I pushed through the heavy velvet curtains. I had spent eight weeks undercover learning one specific, ugly truth about Adam Williams. He runs when he is cornered. He has always run. His flight is fast and it is practiced. It is guided by the specific, jagged intelligence of a man who has prepared exits in every room he has ever occupied. He does not stay to fight the fire. He grabs the jewelry and disappears out the back.
I hit the stage exit twenty seconds behind him. The air in the service corridor was stale, smelling of floor wax and old dust. I knew the venue layout by heart. I had mapped it myself the day before with the same cold, mechanical precision I used when I mapped Adam’s house before I ever entered his life. Preparation is the only thing that makes the improvisation of this job possible. If you do not know where the vents lead and where the stairs go, you are just a tourist. I turned toward the parking structure at a pace that was not quite running. I kept my shoulders down and my gaze neutral. Running draws the eye. Running makes security guards reach for their radios. I was still, technically, a professional. I moved like a ghost through the transition from the ballroom’s luxury to the building's concrete skeleton.
The temperature dropped as I stepped into the parking structure. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of old exhaust and wet cement. I reached the entrance and looked at the elevators. I ignored them immediately. An elevator is a trap. It announces its arrival with a chime. It tells everyone on every floor exactly where you are. I took the stairs instead. I moved up the concrete steps two at a time, my boots making soft, muffled thuds on the gray surface. My lungs burned, but I kept my breathing shallow. I needed to be able to hear a pin drop in the silence.
I reached the second level and stopped. I held the heavy metal door open just a crack and listened. The silence was absolute. There were no voices. There were no footsteps. I stepped out onto the level and the space felt massive and hollow. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a low, annoying buzz. I turned slowly, checking every sight line and every shadow cast by the thick support pillars. I looked for the glint of chrome or the reflection of a window.
Then I saw it. Adam's car was parked in bay fourteen. It was his specific car, the black sedan I had tracked through surveillance footage for nearly two months. The engine was running. I could see the faint shiver of the exhaust pipe and hear the low, expensive purr of the idle. The driver's door was standing wide open, inviting the cold air into the leather interior. It looked like a discarded shell.
I walked toward it carefully. I did not go straight for the door. I circled the perimeter first, checking the bays on either side to make sure he was not crouching behind another vehicle with a tire iron. The parking level was a graveyard of luxury cars, all silent and dark except for the one with the open door. I reached the sedan and looked inside. The interior lights were on, casting a yellow glow over the dashboard. The document wallet was lying right there on the passenger seat. It was open. It was empty. The sketchbook, the one thing Brittany needed more than her own breath, was gone. He had taken the physical evidence and abandoned the getaway car. That was a move of desperation.
I stood up and looked at the ceiling. The parking structure acted like a giant concrete ear, magnifying every sound. I didn't hear the scuff of a shoe. I heard something much more revealing. A voice was drifting down from the level above me. It was Adam. He was on a phone call. He sounded like a man who was watching his entire world dissolve in front of him. He was frantic. He was losing his grip.
"I have it," Adam said. His voice was high and thin, echoing off the concrete ramps. "I am on the roof. Where is the car? You said the car would be on the roof! Where are you?"
I did not wait to hear the answer. I turned toward the ramp and started to climb, my eyes fixed on the top of the concrete slope. I knew he was trapped up there. The roof had no exits except for the one I was currently blocking. I felt a surge of cold, focused energy. This was not just a job anymore. This was the moment we took back what he had stolen. I reached the top of the ramp and felt the wind from the city hit my face. He was standing near the edge, the sketchbook clutched to his chest like a shield. He was alone.
I reached the second level and stopped. There was no one here. The level is empty. I turned slowly, checking every sight line, and saw Adam's car — his specific car, the one I identified from surveillance footage — parked in bay fourteen with its engine running and its driver's door open. Empty. I walked toward it carefully and looked inside and found the document wallet on the passenger seat, open, empty, the sketchbook gone. And then I heard a sound from the level above — not footsteps. A phone call, Adam's voice, saying: "I have it. I'm on the roof. Where's the car?"