Chapter 6: The Service Entrance
The rain had stopped by late afternoon, leaving the asphalt of the downtown alleyways slick and reflecting the harsh neon signs of the side-street storefronts. Jax parked his battered pickup truck three blocks away from the Grand Royal Hotel, tucking it neatly between a delivery van and a dumpster so the license plates were hidden from the street cameras.
He looked down at me as we sat in the cab, the engine ticking quietly as it cooled down. He reached out and pulled the collar of my old jacket up around my neck, straightening the lapels with rough, calloused fingers that were uncharacteristically gentle.
"Stay close to my hip, Toby," Jax said, his voice low and firm. "If anyone asks what you're doing, you're my apprentice. You carry the toolbox. You don't say a word unless I tell you to. Understand?"
"I understand," I whispered, clutching the small metal wrench he’d handed me earlier. It was heavy in my small hand, smelling of machine grease and iron.
We stepped out into the damp evening air, skirting the edge of the grand hotel’s paved courtyard. While the front entrance blazed with crystal chandeliers, valets in crimson uniforms, and wealthy guests stepping out of luxury sedans, we slipped down the narrow concrete ramp that led toward the hotel's loading dock and service basement.
A security guard in a dark navy uniform sat behind a small glass-walled booth, smoking a cigarette and watching a small portable television. As we approached the sliding metal gate, he stood up, stepping out into the cool night air with a scowl on his face.
"Hold on," the guard said, holding up a hand. "Deliveries were finished by three. Service entrance is closed to outside contractors after hours."
Jax didn't slow down. He kept his shoulders squared and his chin up, walking with that slow, heavy stride that commanded space whether people wanted to give it to him or not. He reached into his vest pocket and flashed the laminated ID badge just long enough for the guard to see the plastic gleam without reading the faded print.
"Maintenance call for the third-floor kitchen refrigeration unit," Jax said, his tone flat, bored, and completely authoritative. "Corporate management flagged a temperature drop in the wine cellars upstairs. You want to explain to Mrs. Sterling why her vintage stock spoiled during the charity gala, be my guest. Otherwise, open the gate."
The guard hesitated, his eyes flickering from Jax’s weathered face, down to the heavy canvas jacket, and then over to me holding the iron wrench. The mention of Mrs. Sterling’s name seemed to do the trick; the local elite had a way of making security personnel terrified of minor inconveniences. With a muttered curse, the guard reached behind the glass partition and hit the wall switch. The heavy metal gate groaned upward on its tracks, revealing a long, brightly lit concrete corridor that smelled of bleach, floor wax, and roasted garlic.
"Thirty minutes," the guard grumbled, sitting back down on his stool. "And use the freight lift at the end of the hall. Don't go wandering into the guest corridors."
May you like
"Appreciate it," Jax said, walking past him without breaking stride.
As we stepped through the threshold into the belly of the Grand Royal, I looked up at Jax. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle working beneath his beard. The air inside the hotel was warm and smelled of expensive perfume drifting down from the floors above, mixing strangely with the industrial hum of the building's infrastructure. We were inside now, past the first line of defense, but the real walls—the ones built out of money, silence, and old secrets—were waiting for us upstairs.
