Banks, Maya - KGI 03 - Hidden Away.pdf
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Chapter One
There were any number of men who would do
any job Marcus Lattimer wanted done. He’d
amassed a fortune and countless connections
during his lifetime, most of which were
steeped in murky shades of gray. The men
directly employed by Lattimer were absolute
in their loyalty—he would tolerate no less—
but he never allowed himself to fully trust
anyone.
Some jobs ... Some jobs demanded personal
satisfaction. This one was a matter of honor.
Others might argue that Marcus had none. By
their definition, they’d be right. But he was
bound by a fierce loyal code.
His
honor was
what mattered.
Allen Cross was an arrogant, coattail-riding
asshole. The world would be a better place
without his kind of filth, and Marcus was
determined that the task would be completed
this day.
Marcus attached the silencer and tucked the
gun into the waist of his slacks. Drawing the
Armani suit coat closed, he left the confines of
his car and instructed his driver to wait. He
walked at an unhurried pace toward the
entrance of the high-rise that housed Cross
Enterprises. Around him the city lights
twinkled in the darkening of dusk, and
headlights from passing cars bounced along
the alleyways.
The streets were mostly empty and the
building barren of the weekday horde of
employees who scurried in and out with
regularity. He paused a short distance from the
entrance and checked his watch. The security
guard that manned the front entrance on the
weekends was a family guy and, like most
family guys, had a moderate amount of debt
and stretched his budget from payday to
payday.
After tonight, the guard wouldn’t have the
financial worries of others in his class. Marcus
had seen to that. Right now, the guard would
take a strategic break from his post, and at the
same moment, the surveillance cameras would
go down.
Money bought many things. Loyalty.
Disloyalty. A blind eye. A moment’s
distraction. Fifteen minutes was all Marcus
needed to rid the world of Allen Cross.
Cross was a creature of habit. He came into
his offices every Saturday after seven and
remained until nine P.M., when his car service
collected him and drove him to the same
restaurant ten blocks away. He liked the few
hours of solitude to go over paperwork—but
what he perhaps liked the most was the
freedom to victimize a helpless woman with
impunity.
Marcus’s jaw tightened in fury. Predictability
killed a man. As Cross was about to find out.
Marcus rode the elevator to the twenty-first
floor and stepped onto the cheap, fake Italian
marble flooring, his shoes issuing a faint echo
as he walked through the empty reception
area.
The door to Cross’s office was ajar, and a faint
light shone through the crack. Marcus pushed
at the door and let it slide soundlessly open.
Cross was behind his desk, kicked back in his
chair, a glass of wine in one hand as he read a
sheaf of papers with the other.
Marcus watched, content to wait for his prey
to become aware he was hunted.
After a moment, Cross set his glass down and
leaned forward. He halted in mid-motion, and
his head snapped up, his gaze locked on
Marcus. Cross’s eyes widened in alarm and
then he recovered, a sneer rolling over his lips.
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