Preston?” I asked, adjusting my cuffs.
“Marcus’s second tactical unit has successfully sealed the stairwells and locked down the service elevator on fifty-nine,” Tasha reported with grim satisfaction. “He has absolutely nowhere to go but up to the dining room.”
“Good,” I whispered, watching the glowing floor indicator climb: 50… 55… 58… 60. “Let the curtain rise.”
The lift chimed and its brass doors parted to the soft, elegant strains of a live chamber quartet playing Chopin. But the music was abruptly drowned out by the sound of high-pitched, hysterical