The sound was heavy, mechanical, and final. It came from the breaker room in the basement.
Instantly, the crystal chandeliers went dark. The ambient lighting along the walls died. The soft jazz music cut out with a dying electronic groan.
The restaurant was plunged into darkness. The only light came from the green glow of the emergency exit signs and the streetlights filtering through the front windows.
A collective gasp went through the dining room.
Then, the silence was broken by the sound of the kitchen ventilation system dying. The sudden absence of the hum was deafening. Within seconds, the smell of smoke from the grills—now unvented—began to drift into the dining room.
“What is going on?” Mark shouted, spinning around. “Who turned off the lights?”
The front door opened.
Mr. Henderson, a stern man in a grey suit, walked in. Flanking him were two uniformed NYPD officers and four private security guards.
Mark ran toward them, stumbling in the dark. “Henderson! What is this? Why is the power out? I have a dining room full of people!”
Henderson ignored him. He walked straight to Elena. He handed her a clipboard.
“Clause 9 executed, Ms. Hale,” Henderson said. “The locks are being changed as we speak.”
“Wait,” Mark stammered, looking between Henderson and Elena. “Ms. Hale? Her name is Danton. And why are you talking to her? I pay the rent!”
Henderson turned his flashlight on Mark. The beam was blinding.
