Chapter 18: The Gala of Thieves
The tropical night air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of sea salt and blooming jasmine. The villa was alight, glowing like a diamond against the dark ocean backdrop. Soft classical music drifted over the high white walls.
Claire pulled her catering van—stolen three hours prior from behind a local bakery—up to the heavy iron gates. She was dressed in the crisp white uniform of the catering company, her black hair pulled back into a severe bun.
A cartel guard stepped out of the security booth, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. He tapped on her window.
Claire rolled it down, projecting an air of bored irritation. "Supplemental ice delivery," she said in a flawless, clipped tone, handing him the forged manifest. "Your event planner underestimated how much the guests drink."
The guard glanced at the manifest, then at her forged ID badge. The barcode, which Claire had painstakingly generated, scanned green on his handheld device. He grunted, handing the clipboard back.
"Park around back. Don't go into the main house," the guard ordered, waving her through.
The gates swung open. Claire drove the van to the service entrance, her heart a steady, rhythmic drum in her chest. She wasn't afraid. The fear had burned away in the graveyard in Virginia.
She slipped out of the van, bypassed the busy kitchen staff, and seamlessly blended into the shadows of the villa's expansive wrap-around terrace.
The party was a grotesque display of wealth. Corrupt bankers, cartel associates in tailored linen suits, and disgraced politicians mingled, sipping champagne while discussing blood money. And there, holding court on a plush outdoor sofa, was Eleanor.
She looked entirely in her element. She wore a stunning emerald-green evening gown, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She was laughing at a joke made by a man with a heavily scarred face—a cartel lieutenant.
Claire watched her from behind a towering potted palm. The urge to draw her weapon and end it right there on the terrace was overwhelming. But that would be suicide. There were too many guards. She needed to isolate Eleanor.
Claire watched the patterns of the staff. When a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed by, Claire casually bumped into him, spilling the drinks onto his uniform.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Claire whispered frantically, grabbing the tray. "Go clean up, I'll take these out."
The flustered waiter nodded, rushing back toward the kitchen. Claire turned, carrying the replenished tray out onto the terrace. She kept her head down, weaving through the guests.
She approached Eleanor’s sofa.
"Champagne, ma'am?" Claire offered, her voice pitched low.
Eleanor didn't look at her face. She absentmindedly reached for a flute. "Yes, leave the tray."
As Eleanor’s fingers brushed the glass, Claire leaned in close, her mouth mere inches from Eleanor’s ear.
"I prefer the Cartier," Claire whispered.
Eleanor froze. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering on the stone terrace. She whipped her head around, her eyes locking onto Claire’s. For the first time in her life, Eleanor Hale looked genuinely, viscerally terrified.
May you like
Claire gave her a chilling smile, turned, and disappeared back into the crowd before the cartel lieutenant could even register what had happened.
The bait was set. Now, the spider had to follow.
