Chapter 35 - The Black Market Gala
The Sovereign Club was a fortress of old-world opulence, guarded by men in tailored suits with earpieces and cold, dead eyes. The gala was a masquerade, a fitting theme for a room full of Europe's most elite sociopaths, arms dealers, and corrupt politicians.
Maxwell and Martha arrived in a rented vintage Aston Martin, stepping into the freezing London rain. Maxwell wore his tuxedo with the effortless grace of a born billionaire, but beneath the silk lapels sat a Kevlar vest and a shoulder holster.
Martha was breathtaking. She wore a floor-length emerald silk gown with a daring slit, her hair pinned up elegantly, a silver Venetian mask obscuring the upper half of her face. A small, deadly derringer was strapped to her thigh beneath the silk.
They bypassed the front door security by utilizing one of Arthur's old blackmail files, whispering a single, devastating sentence to the head of security regarding his offshore gambling debts. The man went pale and unclipped the velvet rope without a word.
Inside, the ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and classical string music. The wealth on display was staggering, but Maxwell saw only a room full of monsters hiding behind silk ties and polite smiles.
"He's in the VIP lounge on the second floor," Martha murmured, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to Maxwell. Her lips barely moved, her eyes scanning the room from behind her silver mask. "Two guards on the stairs. Four on the balcony."
"We need a distraction to get past the stairs," Maxwell said, sipping the champagne, his eyes locking onto a familiar face across the room. It was Lord Julian Croft. The Architect. He was an older man with silver hair, impeccably dressed, holding court with a group of Russian oligarchs. He looked entirely untouchable.
"I'll handle the distraction," Martha said smoothly. Before Maxwell could object, she set her glass down and glided across the ballroom floor, moving with a hypnotic grace that drew the eyes of every man in the room.
She approached the heavy marble staircase, intentionally stumbling slightly, her heel catching on the carpet. She let out a soft gasp, dropping her silver clutch purse, its contents spilling across the floor right at the feet of the two heavily armed guards.
Both men instinctively looked down, one of them bending over to help the stunning woman in the emerald dress.
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In that split second, Maxwell moved. He slipped past them like a ghost, ascending the stairs in three silent bounds, melting into the shadows of the second-floor corridor before the guards even realized they had been bypassed.
Martha offered the guard a dazzling, grateful smile, retrieved her purse, and turned back to the crowd, leaving the guards completely unaware that death had just walked right past them.
