I made it to Midtown in under ninety seconds. Didn’t even bother with the door, just went through the window instead. Julia’s going to have opinions about that—she always has opinions when I deviate from protocol—but in the moment, all I could think about was the math. Forty-two stories. Two tons. Three men. And terminal velocity in approximately eight seconds if the crane broke free completely.
But it didn’t break free.
I didn’t let it.
I caught the cab first. The loss of the workers would’ve been a PR nightmare (Julia would have called it a failure, and damn, can that word really sting when coming from her), but really, I just didn’t want three men to die when they didn’t have to. Which meant I had to hold the whole damn crane steady with one hand while I ripped the cab free with the other. The metal screamed. I could feel it in my teeth, that high-pitched shriek of steel bending more than it ever should. The workers were praying, or crying, or shitting their pants.
I set them down on the roof of the adjacent building, gentle as I could manage, and then I went back for the crane. I loweredit piece by piece to the street while a crowd gathered below, phones out, the whole city watching their hero do his job and making sure every fucking second was recorded for likes on social media. Just in case I fucked up.
Afterward, there were interviews. There are always interviews. I said the right things in the right order—just glad everyone’s safe, that’s what matters, happy to help—while camera flashes strobed and reporters shouted questions and the Global Dynamix media relations team hovered at my elbow, ready to cut things off if I went off-script.
Which is pointless, because I never go off-script.
“Three guys are going home to their families tonight because of you,” Danny says. “That’s not nothing, Nate.”
“It’s the job.”
“A job? It’s more than a job and you know it.” He shakes his head and lets out a sigh of friendly disgust. “You know what I did today? For my job? I sat in a car. I ate a breakfast burrito. I scrolled through my ex-wife’s social media and felt sorry for myself. Youcaught a crane with your bare hands.”
“It wasn’t my bare hands,” I correct him. “I was wearing gloves.”
Danny barks out a laugh. “Oh, well, excuse me. Gloves. That changes everything.”
The car banks gently, angling toward the Upper West Side. My building rises ahead of us—sixty stories of glass and steel, one of those new ultra-luxury towers that went up after the reconstruction. I own the whole building but reside in the penthouse. At first, it all belonged to Global, but I bought them out as soon as I hit billionaire status (the fourth billionaire since the economy’s collapse and rebuild). Didn’t want them to own everything in my life.
“I’m just saying,” Danny continues, “you could stand to give yourself some credit once in a while. When I was in Kandahar,I would’ve killed for a win like that. Three lives saved, zero casualties, minimal property damage. That’s a good day, man. That’s agreatday.”
“Yeah, but you’re not bulletproof.”
“No, I’m sure not.” Danny grins. “I’m also ugly as sin and can’t fly. You’ve got me beat on all counts.”
I finally let out a laugh, shaking my head. Danny knows how to take self-deprecation to another level.
The car softly settles onto the landing pad on the building’s roof right above my penthouse. The city glitters below us, all those lights, all those people living their small, ordinary lives. I wonder sometimes what that’s like. I never got that chance, not even when I was young. At least I hope my childhood wouldn’t be considered ordinary.
Danny kills the engine—or whatever passes for an engine in a vehicle that runs on magnetic propulsion and costs more than a fighter jet—and turns to face me.
“Alright, here’s the part where I walk you to your door like you’re my prom date and make sure no one’s hiding in your bushes.”
“I don’t have bushes. I’m on the sixtieth floor.”
“Stop being so literal, smartass.” He pops his door and steps out onto the landing pad, and I follow. The wind is sharp up here, cutting through the October night. Danny hunches into his jacket while I don’t bother; the cold doesn’t touch me the way it once did.
We cross the rooftop to the private elevator that will take me down a couple floors to my penthouse, Danny’s footsteps echoing against the concrete while mine make no sound at all. I learned to move quietly a long time ago—back when being heard meant being found, and being found meant pain. The skills you learn when you’re young have a way of sticking around, even when you don’t need them anymore.
“You know,” Danny says as we reach the elevator, “the irony of me being your security detail is not lost on me.”
“What irony?”
“You’re practically indestructible. I’ve seen you shrug off half a falling building. What exactly am I supposed to protect you from?”
“Inconvenient conversations.”
“Ah. Small talk.” He nods sagely. “The real enemy.”
“You have no idea.”
The elevator opens, and I step inside. Danny doesn’t follow—this is where his job ends and my solitude begins. The line between friend and handler.
