Hidden Enemies | The Prime Archives #2 ✓

twenty-six

Upon arriving at Senator Crane's hotel building, Chase learned two things.

The first was that he instantly disliked the man's security team. They were rude, which was a bit ironic considering they barely spoke to him. But when they did speak, it sounded like they were a teacher and he was a delinquent student who just disrupted the class.

The second was that he learned that he did not like being treated like an animal. After he had met them inside the lobby, the guards corralled him into an elevator reserved for priority guests. They had shepherded him along, their hands pressed against his back as if he was an unruly sheep.

Or a prisoner.

He felt his hands aching from how hard he was clenching his fists.

The elevator ride to the top floor was uncomfortably silent. The guards kept their faces forward, but he could tell they were all looking at him. He stood in the center of the lift with the six security guards forming a box around him.

Chase narrowed his eyes at them, his foot tapping with nervous energy. Most of them pretended to pay him no mind, but he could sense their fear. Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of the handguns clipped to their hips. A few of their fingers were a little too close to the firearms for his liking.

Were they expecting a fight?

They shouldn't have been. He wasn't a threat—at least not yet. If they kept shooting him dirty looks out the corner of their eyes, then he might have turned into one.

Besides, even if a fight did break out, their bullets wouldn't do anything but drop dead to the floor. Chase would walk away with a few holes in his shirt and a deep frown. But that would be it. If it really came down to it, he would be able to dispatch them all in ten to fifteen seconds tops. And that was being generous.

But why would it come to that?

"We're here," the lead guard grunted out as the elevator door's slide open.

Chase glared at the back of the man's skull as he followed him. He kept his own head on a swivel, his eyes narrowed, as he made his way to Crane's suite.

Once they were outside the senator's room, one of the guards pushed open the door. They checked the hallway twice before ushering Chase inside. They prodded him forward like he was a piece of cattle. With his teeth pressed tightly against each other, he resisted the urge to knock them all on their asses.

Despite his ulterior motives, he was there to have a civil conversation with Senator Crane; not to be treated like some war criminal.

As he entered the spacious penthouse, which was decorated with muted, leather furniture and priceless watercolor paintings, he spotted the senator himself standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city of downtown Portland. A glass of scotch hung from his long fingers. His black hair caught the light of the afternoon sun outside.

He turned slightly, a sly smile on his lips. "Ah, you made it. I hope the drive wasn't too bad. I know Portland traffic can be terrible."

"I wouldn't know. I'm not from here," Chase replied as he approached him. He glanced at the guards, who had taken up strategic positions around the penthouse's living room.

"Where are you from, Sentinel?" Senator Crane asked thoughtfully as he turned around. He took a sip from the glass. "Not much is known about you superheroes. Atlas does a good job of scrubbing your records from...well, everywhere."

"I'm from nowhere," Chase answered shortly. "And you don't have to call me Sentinel. As you can see, I'm not suited up. My name is Chase." He took a peek at the guards stationed around the room, all of which had their eyes trained on him. "I'd appreciate it if you tell your goons to back off. I feel like a criminal in here."