Chapter Five — A Body Beneath the Tower

The emergency lights returned with a low electrical hum, but the message in my hand made the corridor feel darker than before.

ALPHA ASHCROFT, YOUR COMPATIBILITY WITH SUBJECT O-17 HAS BEEN CONFIRMED.

I read the sentence again, hoping repetition might make it less impossible.

It did not.

Ronan stood beside me, his expression controlled, but the pistol remained in his hand.

“What is O-17?” I asked.

His eyes stayed on the paper.

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No. I expect you to believe what you can prove.”

That answer sounded exactly like him.

I folded the paper carefully and slipped it inside my jacket.

“Then we start proving things.”

Ronan looked toward the corridor.

“The person who delivered that note may still be nearby.”

“So let them watch.”

His gaze returned to me.

“You are in heat, Adrian.”

“I am aware.”

“You are also being targeted by someone who apparently knows your designation, your medication, and something about our families.”

“I am aware of that too.”

Ronan exhaled slowly.

“Then perhaps stop behaving as though stubbornness is bulletproof.”

I ignored him and opened the door.

The corridor was empty.

The red emergency lighting had been replaced by the building’s normal illumination, but nothing felt normal anymore.

I walked toward the elevators.

Ronan followed.

“Where are you going?”

“The garage.”

“No.”

I stopped.

“You seem confused about our relationship.”

“I’m becoming increasingly clear about it.”

“You are not my security.”

“Good. Your security appears to be doing an excellent job.”

I turned toward him.

“Someone is dead beneath my building. If that person is connected to what happened tonight, I need to know before my father decides what version of the truth everyone else gets.”

That silenced him.

Ronan understood powerful fathers.

Probably better than most people.

We reached the private elevator.

I pressed the call button.

Nothing happened.

“Locked down,” Ronan said.

“Then we use the stairs.”

Another wave of heat tightened through my abdomen.

I gripped the railing before descending.

Ronan noticed.

He said nothing.

That bothered me more than concern would have.

By the time we reached the underground level, my shirt clung slightly to my back.

The air in the garage smelled of concrete, fuel, and something metallic.

Blood.

Security officers had formed a perimeter near Elevator Three.

Marcus stood outside it, speaking rapidly into his phone.

The moment he saw me, his expression hardened.

“Sir, I told you to remain upstairs.”

“You informed me. You did not order me.”

“This is an active crime scene.”

“So I’ve heard.”

His gaze shifted to Ronan.

“And Mr. Ashcroft?”

“He was with me.”

Marcus paused.

I saw the question forming.

I did not allow him to ask it.

“Who is the victim?”

“We still haven’t confirmed his identity.”

“Show me.”

“Mr. Vale—”

“Marcus.”

He stopped.

We had worked together long enough for him to know when resistance had become pointless.

He stepped aside.

The body lay behind a black privacy screen.

One of the security officers moved to block me, but Marcus quietly shook his head.

I walked around the screen.

Then I stopped.

The man was lying on his back beside the concrete wall.

Mid-forties, perhaps.

Dark suit.

White shirt stained heavily with blood.

There was bruising around his throat and a deep wound beneath his ribs.

His pockets had been emptied.

No phone.

No wallet.

No identification.

Ronan stepped beside me.

His expression changed immediately.

“You recognize him?” I asked.

“No.”

But he was looking at the man’s hand.

I followed his gaze.

A small silver mark had been drawn across the victim’s palm.

Not ink.

Something burned into the skin.

A circle crossed by a vertical line.

I had never seen it before.

Ronan crouched.

“Don’t touch anything,” Marcus warned.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Ronan examined the symbol.

“Was this here when you found him?”

Marcus nodded.

“Yes.”

“Photographed?”

“Everything has been documented.”

I looked at Marcus.

“When was he discovered?”

“Approximately twenty minutes ago.”

My pulse changed.

Twenty minutes.

Around the time my heat had accelerated.

Around the time the power failed.

Around the time someone slid that message beneath the door.

“What entrance did he use?”

“We’re reviewing footage.”

“Review it faster.”

Marcus’s mouth tightened.

“The cameras covering this section lost connection during the outage.”

Of course they did.

Ronan stood.

“Anything recovered nearby?”

Marcus hesitated.

That hesitation told me there was.

“What?”

“A keycard.”

My attention sharpened.

“Whose?”

“We’re still checking.”

“Marcus.”

He reached into an evidence pouch held by the security officer and turned it so I could see the card through the plastic.

My photograph stared back at me.

For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood.

Then I saw the name.

ADRIAN VALE — EXECUTIVE ACCESS

My hand went instinctively toward my pocket.

My own keycard was still there.

Ronan looked at me.

“That’s a duplicate.”

“It shouldn’t exist.”

“Yet it does.”

Marcus lowered his voice.

“We tested it.”

“And?”

“It has full executive access.”

Cold spread through me.

That meant whoever created the card could enter my office.

My private floor.

Possibly the medical storage cabinet where my emergency suppressants were kept.

I looked at the dead man again.

“Find out who he is.”

“We are.”

“No. Find out who he met, what cameras saw him, what doors he opened, and who issued that card.”

Marcus nodded.

I turned away from the body.

Then something near the victim’s jacket caught my attention.

A strip of white paper protruded from the inner pocket.

“Wait.”

Marcus stepped forward.

A security officer carefully removed it with gloves.

The paper was folded twice.

He opened it.

There were only two things written inside.

A time.

8:30 PM.

And beneath it, a name.

My name.

Adrian Vale.

The ballroom announcement had been scheduled for 8:30.

Ronan looked at me.

My heat.

The sabotage.

The dead man.

The duplicate access card.

None of it was random.

Then the security officer turned the paper over.

His face changed.

“What?”

He handed it to Marcus.

Marcus stared at the back, then slowly looked at me.

“Sir.”

I took the paper.

A second message had been written there.

IF O-17 SURVIVES TONIGHT, MOVE TO PHASE TWO.

The garage suddenly felt much colder.

Ronan stepped closer.

“What does it say?”

I handed him the note.

For the first time since I had known Ronan Ashcroft, I watched all color leave his face.

Because beneath that sentence, written in smaller handwriting, was another name.

His.

RONAN ASHCROFT — PRIMARY MATCH.