I run to the steel service door. There is a keypad mounted on the brick. A small red light blinks rhythmically in the darkness.
LOCKED.
I don’t have the night vendor code. I’m not supposed to be here.
But I havehiscode.
My father is the Chairman of the Museum Board. He gave me his overriding security code years ago for “Life or Death Emergencies Only.” It pings the overnight desk as a Chairman entry, the kind they don’t challenge unless an alarm follows.
Is this life or death?
I think of the Senator choking. I think of my father’s face if I ruin this.
Yes.
My finger hovers over the keypad, still shaking. If I do this, I’m breaking the rules. But if I don’t, I’m destroying the legacy. Hell, correcting the mistake could kill a man. A senator.
I punch in the numbers.
6 - 7 - 2 - 9 - 0 - #
The keypad beeps loudly in the alleyway.
Buzz.
The red light turns green. A clunk echoes from inside the door as the magnetic locks disengage.
I exhale sharply.
“Okay,” I whisper to the rain. “Just fix it. Swap the vase. Wipe the table. Leave. Ten minutes.”
I pull the steel handle. The door groans as it opens, revealing the dark service corridor.
I step inside the building to fix my mistake.
2
CASSIAN
The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything clean. It pushes the filth into the gutters until they overflow, drenching every inch.
I sit in the driver’s seat of the black armored SUV, the engine idling low enough to be silent, listening to the rain against the glass.
To the casual observer, the street is dead. The windows of the brownstones are dark. The streetlights reflect off the wet asphalt in long, distorted streaks of amber. But I know better.
The monsters are awake.
I’m one of them.
I check the dashboard. 2:25 a.m. The green digits blink back at me, counting the seconds. I place two fingers against the pulse point on the inside of my wrist.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
On the encrypted tablet mounted to the dash, a secure line connects me to the Port Authority logistics server. It’s a boring, gray interface that represents $14 million in potential revenue. A shipment of military-grade weaponry—assault rifles and enough C4 to level a city block—is currently sitting in a rusted shipping container marked “Agricultural Machinery” on Pier 4.
My Head of Security, Varro, is on the other end of the comms. He’s two miles away, watching the container through a thermal scope.
“Boss,” Varro’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “The dock shift change is in three minutes. We have a window. If we don’t move the product now, we’ll have to sit on it for another 24 hours. The buyer is getting twitchy.”
