Chapter 1: Behind the Stainless Steel Doors
The kitchen doors swung shut behind us with a muffled pneumatic hiss, sealing away the polished marble glare of the main corridor. The air changed instantly, heavy with the sharp scent of industrial sanitizer, roasting garlic, and the cooling hum of massive walk-in refrigeration units. I kept my hand wrapped tight around the white cleaning towel, my thumb pressing into the coarse fabric where I’d grabbed his lapel only moments ago.
Mr. Marquina didn't loosen his black tie or show panic. His broad shoulders remained squared beneath his sharp black suit, though his gaze tracked every movement in the prep area. To our right, night-shift line cooks worked in quiet synchronization, ignoring us with the practiced indifference of hotel veterans who knew better than to ask questions.
"Talk," Marquina said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that carried easily over the background hum of ventilation fans.
I led him past a towering stack of sheet pans toward an empty service corridor near the loading docks. "Not here. They've got eyes on the lower terminal routers. Two of your men in the main detail—Vance and Miller—haven't just been checking schedules. They cleared a packet to an unassigned IP address five minutes before you stepped out of your suite."
Marquina stopped beside a stainless steel prep table. His eyes narrowed, studying my face, noting the gray uniform, the apron, and the steady grip I still maintained on the towel. "How do you know what an IP routing packet looks like, cleaner?"
"I worked the front desk data terminals before the floor reorganization pushed me down to Housekeeping," I said, meeting his dark, calculating stare without flinching. "And I know what nervous hands look like when they're typing messages they shouldn't be sending. They aren't just watching your movements, Mr. Marquina. They're timing them."
From behind us, his stern bodyguard stepped out of the shadows of the dry-storage racks, his hand resting near his hip where a concealed holster shaped the wool of his black suit. The earpiece in his ear flashed a faint, intermittent blue light.
May you like
"She's playing an angle, boss," the bodyguard muttered, his eyes locked on me. "Could be a diversion."
"She grabbed my lapel and risked her job to pull me away from an active elevator shaft," Marquina said, his tone flat, leaving no room for argument. He turned back to me. "Show me the locker room access logs."
