From the corner of the room, behind a stack of old crates, we heard a low groan.

Adrian shone his flashlight toward the sound, revealing a pair of leather shoes sticking out from behind the wood.

We rushed over, navigating around the broken glass and discarded papers.

Marcus was slumped against the wall, clutching his shoulder.

His white shirt was stained with dark blood, and his face was pale and slick with sweat.

“Mr. Vale,” Marcus gasped, his eyes struggling to focus in the flashlight beam.

“Don’t move,” Adrian said, kneeling beside his chauffeur and applying pressure to the wound.

“He was here,” Marcus whispered, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. “Grant. He has the painting.”

“Is he still in the building?” I asked, my voice trembling as I looked around the shadows.

“No,” Marcus groaned, shaking his head slightly. “He left ten minutes ago. With two men.”

Marcus pointed a weak, trembling hand toward a large metal desk in the corner.

“He was looking for something in the drawers,” Marcus said. “He dropped a folder. He didn’t notice.”