“I’m going out,” I tell him. “Clean this fucking desk while I’m gone.”
I leave him gazing in despair at the indelible blood stains.
* * *
Jacopo’s warning is still ringing in my ears when I arrive at the warehouse where this PacSyn contact has asked to meet. I know of him, a man called Wittemeyer—“Wits” for short, though I see no evidence that he has any. He’s high-ranked in their organization, but I don’t like the implication that we are of the same level. It’s insulting.
Still, I’m desperate. If they have information, I need it. I can afford to make some concessions to hear it, though certainly not an alliance. But any fears I have that an alliance will be their demand are quickly put to rest.
My first instincts were right. PacSyn has come to kill me.
I can see it from the moment Wittemeyer steps out from the shadows inside the warehouse. “Castellani.”
The one-word greeting. The tension in his shoulders.
Jacopo was right, damn him; itwasa bad idea to come alone. Without any shields or backup, my own instincts and reactions are the only protection I have—but at least I know that I can rely on them.
I keep Wittemeyer calm. Let him think he has the upper hand. “You have information for me?”
He gives a jerky nod, but then he twitches in a manner that suggests he might be going for a weapon.
I hesitated once and it cost me everything. These days, I do not hesitate. I have my gun in my hand before I even think about it.
“Hey, now,” he says, holding up his hands with a chuckle. “Didn’t pick you for the jumpy type, Castellani. It’s true, I got some intel for you.”
“You were supposed to come unarmed.”
“So were you,” he points out, nodding at my gun. “But neither of us is stupid, right?”
If he came armed, he might have come with backup. The thought occurs to me only a half-second before I see his eyes flick behind me, over my shoulder, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Once again, I do not hesitate.
It’s fortunate for me that I don’t; I shoot Wittemeyer cleanly through the head even as I throw myself to the right, and I feel the heat of a bullet streaking past my ear. I roll, get a picture of where my enemies are hiding, and then I wait.
They are not patient men, these PacSyn dogs. Two of them, both too confident in themselves, in each other. The first one I get as he runs between pillars, as though moving makes him harder to target.
The second is slightly cleverer. He hides where he is, makes me come to him, but within ninety seconds he, too, has joined his compatriots in the afterlife.
I listen for any further footsteps, but I know the reputation of the two men Wittemeyer brought with him. They were his most trusted lieutenants. It’s unlikely that anyone else is here.
Three men down. PacSyn will know who did this, but I’m glad they will. They need to understand who they’re dealing with.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in such danger, and I relish the adrenaline, chuckling to myself as I holster my gun. But just as I’m turning to leave, I hear something.
Or I think I do.
I stand very still, breathing quietly and regularly, and let my instincts take over.
Yes. That way—I definitely heard something.
On noiseless feet, I make my way over to the side of the area, where an old set of waist-high cupboards are concreted into the floor. I take out my gun again and wait.
From the third cupboard along comes a soft, shifting noise.
Could be rats.
I yank open the door, my finger tightening on the trigger—
