“Up,” Snake Eyes said.
We moved slower now, every sense stretched thin.
Tenth floor.
The layout here was different. Bigger open spans meant for ballrooms and high-limit gaming. The boardwalk side was one long sweep of glass, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the dark ocean and the scattered lights below.
Ladders stood in the middle of empty space. Rolls of carpet leaned against half-finished walls. In onecorner, a cluster of folding chairs sat around a makeshift table, empty coffee cups and a deck of cards abandoned on top.
It felt like walking into a backstage area after a show left town.
“Still nothing on your cams?” Jersey asked quietly.
“Nothing moving,” Miami said. “Just you. It’s wrong, man. This whole feed feels… wrong.”
My skin crawled.
We pushed forward, clearing the floor in segments, staying low near the heavier structures, avoiding standing pure silhouetted in front of those big glass panes.
On the far side of the floor, near what would eventually be the elevator lobby, I saw something that made my stomach drop.
Zip ties.
A bunch of them. Some still looped, ends cut. Some stretched out and stained dark. They lay scattered near a support column like someone had cut people loose in a hurry—or had taken what they’d left and gone.
“Here,” I said.
Jersey moved up beside me, eyes tracking over the plastic cuffs.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Whoever brought them here had enough time to tie and untie,” Snake Eyes said as he approached us. “This wasn’t a smash-and-grab. This wascontrolled.”
“Or they moved them,” I said. “Somewhere else in the building. Or out.”
“Any sign of Vladimir yet?” Blackjack’s voice came through now, tighter. He was listening from the second team’s position around the block.
“Not yet,” Jersey said. “No bodies. No enemies. No hostages. Just signs something already happened.”
My heart thudded once. Twice.
This building was supposed to be Roman’s crown. His mark on this city’s skyline. Right now, it felt like a hollow tooth waiting for infection.
“Tell me what your gut says,” he asked me quietly.
“That we’re too late,” I said. “And early. At the same time.”
He grimaced. “Hate it when you talk like that.”
I took a breath that felt like it went in sideways.
“Blackjack,” I said into the mic. “It’s all wrong in here.”
“Define wrong,” he replied.
“Too clean,” I said. “Too empty. No hostiles. No friendlies. Just traces. Zip ties. Blood smears. Half-eaten meal. Like someone moved through, did what they needed to do, and then scrubbed the place of anything living.”
“Could be they took them higher,” he said. “Rooftop. Future ballroom. Somewhere more dramatic.”
