Charlie was at the bottom, in a basement corridor lined with old stonework and exposed pipes. The speakeasy tunnels. I'd studied the building plans with Cass three days ago. The corridor branched ahead: left toward the old tunnel system, right toward a loading dock exit.
"Loading dock," I said. "Right side. Thirty meters."
The second pursuer hit the stairs above us. Then another sound, from the tunnel branch to our left. Footsteps. Slower. Unsteady.
Walsh stepped into the corridor.
He had a gun. A compact semi-automatic that looked new, recently purchased, barely handled. He was holding it with both hands wrapped too high on the grip, elbows locked, the stance of a man who'd learned to shoot from movies.
He was shaking.
"Stop." His voice cracked on the word. Not commanding. Begging.
Charlie went still beside me. I calculated angles. Walsh was twelve feet away. The second pursuer was on the stairs behind us, maybe fifteen seconds out. Walsh's grip was wrong, his stance was wrong, his trigger discipline was nonexistent. He was more likely to shoot himself than either of us. But scared men with guns were the most dangerous men in any room, because they didn't follow logic.
I kept my hands visible. Voice low. Flat. "Put the gun down, Walsh."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" His voice shook as badly as his hands. "Do you know what those photos are going to cost me?"
Charlie stepped forward. I reached for her arm but she was already talking. Calm. Clear.
"I took pictures, Greg. That's all I ever did."
"Those pictures are going to destroy everything I've built. Everything. My career, my family, all of it."
His eyes were wet. His face was gray. A man who'd gambled on violence and lost. He'd spent weeks trying to scare a woman half his size and failed, and now he was standing in a basement with a gun he didn't know how to use because every other option had collapsed.
"You were supposed to be scared," he said. Quieter now. Almost to himself. "You were supposed to stay home."
"I don't scare that easy."
His grip shifted on the gun. Finger twitching toward the trigger.
Three moves.
I stepped left, clearing Charlie from the line of fire. Closed the distance before Walsh's brain caught up with his eyes. My left hand stripped the gun, thumb behind the slide, twist, and it was out of his grip before he'd processed the movement. Right hand caught his wrist, rotated, and put him face-first into the stone wall. My knee pinned him there.
The gun was in my hand, cleared and safed, before Walsh finished gasping.
He crumbled. Didn't fight. Didn't resist. Just sagged against the wall, knees buckling, sobbing. A politician who'd hired thugs and bought a gun and still wasn't ready for what happened when someone pushed back.
Behind me, the second pursuer hit the bottom of the stairs.
Charlie was ready. I heard the crack of metal on bone. A serving tray she'd grabbed from the kitchen, swung hard into the man's face. He staggered. She hit him again. He went down.
She stood over him, breathing hard, tray dented, hair wild, press credentials swinging from her neck.
"Charlie—"
"I'm fine." She was already raising her camera. Shot Walsh against the wall. Shot the downed security. Shot the gun on the floor. Evidence. Every frame.
"Cass. Corridor B, basement level. Walsh is down. Armed when we got here, disarmed now. Two of his people neutralized. We need cleanup."
"Backup's moving. Two minutes."
I kept Walsh pinned until I heard Heartline boots on the stairs. Cass came down first, sharp suit, sharp eyes, assessing the scene in one sweep. Two operatives behind him secured Walsh's people. Someone was already on the phone with federal contacts.
Walsh didn't speak again. Didn't look up. Just stayed crumpled on the floor while his career collapsed around him.
