Chapter 8: The Maze of the East Wing
The heavy fire alarm bells began to ring, piercing the air with a deafening, rhythmic shrieking that rattled the windowpanes. Downstairs, the muffled sounds of panicked guests abandoning the dining room drifted up through the stairwells. Julianna had triggered the internal security lockdown, sealing the heavy steel fire doors between the east and west wings of the mansion.
Alyssa flew down the narrow service stairs, her high heels clicking frantically against the concrete steps. Her lungs burned, and her bruised ribs throbbed with every breath, but survival instincts overrode the pain. She clutched the manila folder tightly against her chest, the stolen evidence her only shield against total annihilation.
Bursting through the bottom door of the stairwell, she found herself in the subterranean laundry and utility corridors—the bowels of the estate where the domestic staff worked out of sight. The long, white-tiled hallway was brilliantly lit by fluorescent overhead panels, casting harsh shadows against the concrete walls.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Two of Julianna’s private security guards, dressed in black tactical gear, rounded the corner with flashlights drawn.
“There! She’s headed for the loading dock!” one guard shouted, raising his baton.
Alyssa spun around, backtracking toward the old industrial linen chute. Years ago, before Julianna modernized the estate, the heavy metal chute had been used to drop soiled laundry directly into the basement sorting bins. Pushing open the heavy spring-loaded stainless-steel door, Alyssa didn't hesitate. She shoved the manila folder down the chute first, then squeezed her slender frame through the narrow opening, sliding feet-first into the dark vertical drop.
Gravity took over. She plummeted downward in a rush of cold air and the smell of industrial detergent, spinning wildly before crashing into a massive mountain of freshly washed hotel linens piled at the bottom of the chute.
The soft padding of the linens absorbed most of the impact, though her breath left her in a sharp gasp. Coughing and tangled in white cotton sheets, Alyssa wriggled free and scrambled out onto the concrete floor of the basement. The manila folder lay a few feet away, miraculously intact.
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She grabbed the folder and ran toward the dimly lit maintenance exit at the far end of the basement—a heavy metal door leading out to the overgrown ravine behind the property.
As she reached the door and shoved the crash bar, a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, spinning her around with brutal force.
