Out of the Shadows 023

A 5-star machine-augmented MIDNIGHT'S WAR novel

Rubinstein’s fork clattered against his plate. “More selective. You mean exclusive. You’re going to lock up the most important medical breakthrough of the century for the exclusive benefit of a handful of aging billionaires?”

“I don’t recall suggesting anything of the kind,” Elliott said mildly.

“You don’t have to,” Bui interjected. “We’ve seen this playbook before. Private equity comes in, promises the moon, then strips the assets and leaves the carcass. Except in this case, the asset is the potential to extend human life, and the carcass is everyone on the planet who can’t afford your ‘selective’ treatment.”

Elliott studied the rain streaming down the windows, using the reflection to monitor the room behind him. Two waiters hovering by the service door, the maître d’ trying to look busy at his station, a busboy who’d been cleaning the same table for five minutes. All normal. All human.

So what was bothering him. Why was he starting to feel hunted?

“I understand your disappointment,” he said, returning his attention to the executives. “Blackrock has invested considerable resources in preparing for this IPO. But my decision is final. HemaTech will remain private.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Rubinstein said, his face flushing. “Don’t forget your letters of intent.”

“They include termination clauses that my lawyers have already exercised,” Elliott replied. “The penalty payments will be transferred to your accounts by the end of business tomorrow. We will fulfill all of our contractual obligations.”

“This isn’t just about the money, Elliott!” Bui snapped, her composure finally cracking. “It’s about your credibility. Our credibility! Do you have any idea what we’ve put in motion? The institutional investors we’ve lined up? The market makers we’ve put into play on your behalf? You can’t just walk away at this point!”

“Actually,” Elliott said, rising smoothly from his chair, “I can. And I am.” He placed a black American Express card on the table. “Dinner is on me. A small gesture of appreciation for your efforts.”

Harry Rubinstein pushed himself heavily to his feet and put out a meaty hand. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not disappointed, Elliott. Very disappointed. But at the end of the day, I can’t help but wish you well.”

“Likewise you, Harry.” The two men shook hands, firmly, and with finality.

“No hard feelings, Elliott. And if things change, for any reason, don’t hesitate to get in touch. I don’t believe in burned bridges.”

“I appreciate that, Harry.” He glanced at Jennifer Bui who had not risen from her seat and was refusing to look at him. She appeared to be harboring more than enough hard feelings to make up for Rubinstein. So he made do with a simple nod. “Ms Bui, Mr. Weber.”

But as he moved past the table, Weber suddenly rose and moved to block Elliott’s path with apparent casualness. The sound of his pulse racing was almost deafening.

“You know,” Weber said quietly, “my grandmother used to tell me stories. Old European stories about things that go bump in the night. About the prices paid in blood by those who sold their souls.” His smile was razor-thin. “Funny how those old stories sometimes have kernels of truth to them.”

Elliott met the man’s gaze steadily. “Your grandmother sounds like an imaginative woman.”

“She was. She also taught me that every monster has a weakness… and every immortal has an Achilles’ heel.” Weber stepped aside with mock courtesy. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Grahame. And rest assured, we shall follow your future endeavors with considerable interest.”

“You have a good evening too, Mr. Weber.”

The elevator descended in silence, carrying him past floors of oblivious diners enjoying their $500 tasting menus. Elliott’s phone buzzed—a text from one of his new bodyguards.

Two of ours in lobby. Black sedan at north exit. Probable surveillance on south exit.

He smiled grimly. Medici hadn’t been exaggerating about the protection that came with his new status. The ancient vampire lord’s security network was extensive, layered, and absolutely ruthless when it came to protecting his assets. And Elliott, with his unique knowledge bridging human science and vampire biology, was definitely considered one of his more valuable assets at the moment.

The lobby of Eleven Madison Park was all marble and modernist aesthetics, designed to impress without overwhelming. Elliott spotted his bodyguards immediately—not because they stood out, but because his new senses could detect the subtle details that marked them as predators. They looked like investment bankers, all expensive suits and even more expensive watches, but they moved with the fluid grace of hunters.

One of them, a blonde woman who looked perhaps thirty but whose eyes were far too jaded for her apparent age, fell into step beside him as he headed for the exit.

“Sir,” she murmured. “We have a situation. Our spotters report unusual activity. Three vehicles have been circling the block, there are two food trucks that arrived within minutes of each other, and there is a pedestrian pattern that suggest a surveillance box.”

“Blackrock moves fast,” Elliott observed.

“This isn’t corporate,” she replied. “Too aggressive. Too coordinated. But whoever they are, they were expecting you to be here tonight.”

Elliott processed this as they approached the doors. His dinner with Blackrock had been scheduled for weeks, back when the financial giant believed his IPO was still moving forward. Who else would have known about it? More importantly, who would have cared enough to arrange what sounded like it might be an attempt to kidnap him?

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“We take the north exit, straight to the car. Minimal exposure. Marcus and I can handle any singular threats, but if this is something more serious, they’ll have contingencies.”

Marcus was the other bodyguard, Elliott assumed. The vampires on the security teams all seemed to have classical names, as if they’d stepped out of a Roman legion. Which, he reflected, some of them may well have.

They pushed through the doors into the Manhattan night. The rain had intensified, turning the streetlights into haloed smears and reducing visibility for normal humans. For Elliott, the darkness of the evening might as well have been broad daylight. He could see everything—the taxi idling at the corner with its driver talking animatedly on a cell phone, the homeless man whose posture was too alert, too ready, the woman with the umbrella who’d been walking the same route for the past ten minutes.

The black sedan waited at the curb, engine running. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

That’s when Elliott heard it—a sound his human ears would never have caught. The tiny click of an electronic timer advancing, coming from the taxi at the corner.

“Down!” he shouted, grabbing his bodyguard and diving behind a concrete planter just as the taxi exploded.