“Pull your knife,” I tell her.
She reaches down to the sheath at her hip and draws the black blade.
“Strip the casing and touch the copper together,” I instruct.
She shaves the insulation off the wires. Her hands are steady. She pinches the exposed ends together. A blue spark jumps against her fingertips, followed by the clunk of the magnetic locks disengaging.
The door swings open a fraction of an inch.
I catch it with my right hand and pull it open.
“After you,” I say.
She steps into the service corridor. I follow, pulling the door shut behind us, plunging us into the dark.
We move past the industrial kitchens. As we reach the end of the corridor where it opens into the Grand Hall, I spot a flicker of light.
I grab Iris’s arm and shove her flat against the wall, shielding her body with my own.
“Motion,” I whisper.
I peer around the corner. A security gate blocks the archway. On the other side, two guards are walking the perimeter of the marble floor, sweeping the exhibits with flashlights.
“They upgraded the physical security,” I murmur. “We can’t pick that gate without them seeing us.”
I reach toward my chest, my fingers curling around the grip of the SIG. “I’ll neutralize them. Quietly.”
Iris grabs my wrist.
“No,” she whispers fiercely.
“Iris, we have thirty minutes. If they walk down this corridor, we are compromised.”
“You told me your father had a strict code,” she reminds me. “You keep the violence away from civilians. Those men are just night watchmen. You don’t get to execute them just because they’re in our way.”
I stare down at her. The lethal calculation in my brain battles with the truth of her words. She’s throwing my own code right back at me.
“If they trigger the radio, the trap is over,” I warn.
“They won’t trigger the radio,” she says. She lets go of my wrist. “Stay in the shadows. Keep your gun holstered.”
“Iris, what are you doing?”
She steps out from behind the wall and walks directly into the corridor, heading straight toward the gate.
Her boots thud on the floor.
Instantly, two flashlight beams snap toward her.
“Hey!” one of the guards shouts. “Stop right there! Put your hands in the air!”
I draw my gun, stepping close enough to the edge to drop both men if they twitch.
But Iris doesn’t raise her hands. She stands perfectly straight, summoning the coldest, most entitled version of the socialite she used to be.
“Lower those weapons this instant,” she snaps, her voice ringing with unquestionable authority. “And get these lights out of my eyes.”
The flashlights waver, dropping slightly.
