I sit up, keeping the sheet over my lap, and dig through my pants until I find it. One glance at the encrypted message, and my stomach sinks.
Fuck. The bounty on Saint hasn’t just gone up—it’s quadrupled. It was already the highest contract on the books—ten million, dead or alive, collectable by any Guild or freelancer willing to try. Now? Five hundred million. Enough to make every desperate rat in the underworld start sniffing for blood. No expiration. No mercy.
This changes everything. Makes our next move damn near suicidal.
Before I can even process it, Frank pokes his head in, the mole-man’s coke-bottle glasses catching the light. “The car I secured is here. You can blow it up if you need to.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Thanks, Frank. Can’t make any promises.”
He disappears as fast as he came, muttering something about explosives and ramen.
I stare at the phone. Half a billion fucking dollars on Saint’s head. Every hour we’re aboveground is a risk.
I type out a reply back to my broker. “We need a new plan. Fast.”
Vincenzi Tower rises like a glass blade in the heart of downtown Chicago, all steel, mirrored panels, and money. The kind of place that pretends not to notice the blood in its own drains. Saint and I walk in like we belong, eyes up, reading everyone and everything. The security guard at the desk gives us a glance, but nothing more. Another Tuesday.
We stop in front of the polished granite directory and Saint adjusts her backpack straps while we scour the board. There it is, sandwiched between a law firm and an “innovation startup” that’s probably just a shell: Morley & Brandt LLP – Certified Public Accountants. Floor 32.
Boring. Perfect.
We weigh our options fast, low-voiced—book it as a walk-in and risk a desk jockey looking us up? Pull the fire alarm and draw every security goon in a ten-block radius? Neither is good, not with this many eyes.
Saint nudges my arm before I can decide. “There,” she murmurs. Two janitors and a supervisor, pushing big rolling carts stacked with trash bags and cleaning supplies, vanish through a set of double doors that someone left propped open.
We lock eyes. No words needed. In less than a minute,we’re inside, moving like ghosts—Saint is already digging through a laundry bag for uniforms, and I lift a ring of keys off a too-trusting supervisor. She raises an eyebrow at me, smirking as she pulls her hair into a knot and snaps on a pair of blue gloves.
Within minutes, we’re janitors. Disposable, invisible, everywhere and nowhere. I shove a trash cart in front of us for cover, Saint takes the clipboard, and together we move through a side corridor toward the service elevator.
Nobody notices the help.
I scan the key ring—sure enough, one is labeled “32.” As we step into the elevator, Saint leans close, voice barely audible: “Let’s keep this quiet. In and out.”
I hit the button for floor thirty-two. The doors close with a hush, and we start to climb, all the pressure and risk bearing down as we move higher, closer to the wolves.
Floor thirty-two. We slip out of the elevator and hit the rear entrance—one quick turn with the key, but Saint’s already picking it, multitool flashing in her hand. No rush. Nothing draws attention like a janitor sprinting. We move slow, emptying a few bins, eyes scanning the maze of nameplates.
Then I see it. “Thank fuck, he’s got a private office,” I mutter, nodding at a door at the end. Saint’s on it, popping the lock faster than I can blink. Inside—dark, blinds drawn, the only light from the city outside.
She’s already flipping open the burner Grim gave her, hitting speaker before it rings. Grim picks up on the first buzz—voice all teenage cockiness, no business being this deep in assassin shit.
“We’re in the dead guy’s office,” Saint says. “I need everything you can pull, fast.”
I’m elbow-deep in the file cabinet, rifling through ghosts. All standard for a dirty accounting firm—aliases, payouts, shell companies, contracts for jobs that never happened. Caleb Thatcher, “The Houseguest.” Low-level stuff. Stamped deceased. Nothing new, nothing worth dying over.
Saint’s wrangling Grim like always—bossy, sharp, not actually related but they spar like family. He texts her a link, tells her to stick the phone near the computer.
“It’s not even on,” she gripes.
“So turn it on,” Grim fires back, pure attitude.
Saint boots it. Password screen blinks and dies—Grim’s already inside. Code flashes, progress bars crawl, windows flicker as he rips the guts out of the drive. Saint leans in, watching. She’s not interested in chatter, only what got this guy dead.
Grim’s running his mouth. “Jesus, this guy was a nerd. Chewbacca wallpaper, Chewbacca memes—does anyone over thirty even—wait.”
He goes silent. Suddenly, a wave of documents opens—fake news headlines, dozens at once, flooding the screen.
Headline: Presidential Candidate Assassinated at World Energy Summit
