Two pairs of heavy combat boots stepped onto the pristine marble of the penthouse foyer, one immediately after the other.
"This is a stupid idea. A very bad, stupid idea," a burly security operative whispered harshly out of the corner of his mouth. "We are dead men walking."
"What were we supposed to do?" his partner whispered back, his face sweating as he hoisted a massive, monogrammed Louis Vuitton steamer trunk. "Send her away? She said he knew she was coming."
"Does this look like an apartment expecting guests?!" the first guard hissed, gesturing to the pitch-black, silent living room. "We're fucking dead."
"Are you expecting me to carry my own luggage?" an irritated, sharp female voice snapped from the elevator cabin behind them. "Less whispering, more lifting. The leather on that trunk is worth more than your combined annual salaries."
"Of course not, Ms. Sinclair," they mumbled in unison.
Diana Sinclair stepped out of the private elevator.
