Chapter 1 - Eleven Forty-Seven

At 11:47 on a freezing Tuesday night, I dropped to my knees outside an elevator forty-five floors above downtown Chicago and pressed both hands against a dying stranger’s chest. “Please don’t die,” I begged as the security guard called for an ambulance and I kept pushing until my arms shook. His ribs moved beneath my palms, his expensive shirt tore open, and for several terrifying seconds I was sure I had already lost him. Then he gasped. By sunrise, I discovered the unconscious man I had fought to save wasn’t another late-working executive at all. Something far worse had happened inside that company while he was lying helpless beneath my hands. And there would be no coming back from it.

I pressed both hands against the stranger’s chest and shouted, “Stay with me!”

The security officer dropped a red AED case beside his black suit jacket.

A silver identification card had slipped from the stranger’s pocket.

One line was engraved beneath his name: OWNER — COLE MERIDIAN GROUP.

This wasn’t an ordinary medical emergency.

For half a second, I forgot to breathe.

Then training took over again.

“Thirty compressions,” I whispered.

My palms were locked over the center of his chest. My elbows stayed straight. I pushed down hard, released, pushed again.

One.

Two.

Three.

The man beneath me didn’t move.

His name, according to the card lying inches from my knee, was Adrian Cole.

I knew the name.

Everybody at Cole Meridian knew the name.

You could work there for years without seeing him, but you knew what his signature looked like because it appeared beneath every corporate announcement, every acquisition, every congratulatory message posted beside the elevators.

Adrian Cole.

Founder.

Chief executive.

Majority owner.

The man who technically owned the floor beneath my knees.

“Ambulance is six minutes out,” the security guard said.

His badge read MARTIN HALE.

Six minutes.

It sounded like six years.

“I need the pads,” I said.

Martin tore open the package.

My fingers trembled as I pulled Adrian’s white shirt farther apart.

There was blood near his collar.

Not much.

Enough to frighten me.

His skin was cold and slick beneath the fluorescent lights.

His chest was marked with several old scars and dark tattoos that didn’t match the polished corporate photograph I remembered seeing in the annual report.

For some absurd reason, that made him seem more human.

Not Adrian Cole.

Not the billionaire who occupied the highest floor.

Just a thirty-something man whose heart had stopped.

“Clear.”

The machine analyzed.

No shock advised.

“Continue CPR.”

I went back to compressions.

My shoulders burned.

My wrists screamed.

I ignored both.

“Come on,” I whispered.

Nothing.

“Come on, Adrian.”

Martin glanced at me.

“You know him?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“His badge.”

Martin’s face changed when he noticed it.

He looked from the card to Adrian and back again.

“Oh, God.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like he’s already dead.”

Martin swallowed.

“Right.”

I pushed harder.

The sound that came from Adrian’s chest made my stomach twist.

A small crack.

Rib.

I knew what it probably meant.

Correct CPR could break ribs.

Knowing that didn’t make hearing it easier.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped.

Martin stared at me.

“What?”

“I think I broke something.”

“You’re keeping him alive.”

I kept going.

At compression twenty-three, Adrian’s body jerked.

I stopped.

His lips parted.

A rough breath entered him.

Then another.

Weak.

Uneven.

But real.

“Oh my God.”

I leaned closer.

“Adrian?”

His eyelids fluttered.

For one second, dark eyes met mine.

They looked confused.

Then frightened.

“Don’t move,” I said. “You collapsed.”

His mouth barely formed a word.

“What…”

“You’re safe.”

That was a lie.

I had no idea whether he was safe.

I just knew he was breathing.

Martin was already shouting into his radio.

“I’ve got spontaneous breathing. Repeat, patient is breathing.”

Adrian’s fingers moved against the floor.

I caught his hand.

“Stay still.”

He tried to speak again.

This time I heard it.

“Laptop.”

I frowned.

“What?”

His grip tightened weakly around my fingers.

“Laptop.”

“It doesn’t matter right now.”

His eyes sharpened with a flash of panic.

“Don’t… let…”

His voice failed.

“Don’t let who?”

His head rolled slightly.

I touched his shoulder.

“Adrian. Look at me.”

His eyes closed.

He remained breathing.

Barely.

Martin moved toward the elevator doors.

“The paramedics are coming up.”

I finally sat back on my heels.

My hands were shaking so badly I had to tuck them against my thighs.

That was when I noticed the broken laptop bag.

It lay five feet from Adrian, half underneath a polished chrome bench.

The leather strap had been cut.

Not torn.

Cut.

A black laptop rested partly outside it.

Martin saw me staring.

“What?”

“Was that bag like that when you got here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You found him first?”

“No. You did.”

That was true.

I had been leaving work after another twelve-hour shift when the elevator stopped at forty-five instead of continuing to the lobby.

The doors had opened.

Adrian had been there.

Face down.

Alone.

At least I thought he had been alone.

I looked toward the security camera above the elevator bank.

A tiny red light blinked.

“Martin.”

“Yeah?”

“Does that camera record?”

He followed my gaze.

“It should.”

“Good.”

The elevator chimed.

Four paramedics rushed out.

Everything moved fast after that.

Oxygen.

Vitals.

Commands.

A stretcher.

One paramedic asked me how long Adrian had been unconscious.

“I don’t know. Maybe less than a minute before I started CPR.”

“Good response.”

“He wasn’t breathing.”

“You did the right thing.”

They strapped Adrian onto the stretcher.

As they lifted him, his hand fell toward the edge.

Something small dropped from his trouser pocket.

A black flash drive.

No one noticed.

Except me.

I bent down and picked it up.

“Ma’am?”

I turned.

The paramedic was looking at me.

“You coming?”

“With him?”

“You’re the witness. Hospital may need details.”

I slipped the flash drive into my jumpsuit pocket.

“I’ll come.”

Martin caught my arm gently.

“Maya.”

I stared at him.

I had forgotten he knew my name.

We had nodded at each other almost every evening for eleven months.

“You okay?”

“No.”

That was the first honest thing I had said in several minutes.

He gave me a tired smile.

“Fair.”

We rode down forty-five floors in silence.

At the lobby, glass doors revealed blowing snow under the streetlights.

Chicago looked almost colorless.

Blue lights flashed against the building.

The paramedics wheeled Adrian through the revolving doors.

I followed.

Then someone behind me said my name.

“Maya Chen?”

I turned.

A man stood near the security desk.

Gray suit.

Navy tie.

Perfect posture.

I recognized him immediately.

Richard Vale.

Chief Operating Officer.

Second most powerful executive at Cole Meridian.

He should not have been there at midnight.

His eyes went first to Adrian.

Then to me.

Then to the broken laptop bag Martin carried.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He collapsed,” I said.

Richard’s expression barely changed.

“Did he say anything?”

The question came too quickly.

I noticed that.

“Not really.”

His eyes settled on mine.

“Not really?”

“He was barely conscious.”

“What exactly did he say?”

I remembered Adrian’s hand tightening around mine.

Laptop.

Don’t let…

“I couldn’t understand him.”

Richard stared at me for three long seconds.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t warm.

“You probably saved his life.”

“I hope so.”

“You should go home.”

“The paramedics said the hospital may need my statement.”

“I can handle that.”

I frowned.

“You weren’t there.”

His smile disappeared.

“Of course.”

Martin stepped closer.

“I’ll make sure she gets there.”

Richard looked annoyed.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then the expression vanished.

“Excellent.”

The ambulance doors closed.

I followed Martin toward his patrol car.

Inside my pocket, the flash drive pressed against my leg.

I didn’t know why I hadn’t handed it over.

Maybe because Adrian had spent his first conscious breath trying to say something about his laptop.

Maybe because Richard Vale had appeared in the lobby too quickly.

Maybe because the leather strap hadn’t torn.

It had been cut.

As Martin pulled into traffic, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I opened the message.

YOU TOOK SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.

My blood turned cold.

Another message arrived.

RETURN IT BEFORE THE HOSPITAL.

I looked through the rear window.

A black sedan had just pulled away from the curb behind us.

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Its headlights came on.

And it followed.