“Could be,” I said. “Or they already walked them back out another door and we’re standing in a picture after the fact.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Pull back?” he asked.
I looked out at the black hulk of the ocean through the glass. The reflection showed six leather-clad figures among concrete and steel and hanging wires.
Every instinct I had was humming.
“Not yet,” Jersey said. “Give us one more floor. If it still feels like this, we reevaluate.”
“Make it quick,” Blackjack said. “Tesauro’s not going to give us a script. He’s already improvising on the fly.”
“Copy,” Jersey replied.
We turned toward the stairwell again and continued moving.
The next flight up felt heavier under my boots. Every creak of the floor, every flicker of the work lights, every gust of air through the open elevator shaft felt like the building breathing around us.
My thumb brushed the edge of the key at my throat.
Crown or coffin, I thought.
Roman might have built this place to mark his rise. Tesauro might be turning it into the place where everything broke instead.
We were going to find out which one it was.
And whether or not we walked back down those stairs to tell thestory.
Twenty One
Jersey Boy
I’d been in bad buildings before.
Trap houses with sagging floors. Hotels where the wallpaper peeled like dead skin. One time, a half-burned row home that smelled like melted wiring and old screams.
Roman’s new build was different.
It wasn’t ruined yet. It was in that ugly in-between—too finished to be a full skeleton, but too raw to be safe. Concrete, glass, half-installed chandeliers hanging like nooses. It felt like we weren’t walking through a crime scene so much as a crime still being drafted.
We moved up from ten.
Boots on concrete, guns up, breath loud in my ears under the hum of the building. I led, Valkyrie on my right. Snake Eyes and Spade behind us. Turnpike watching the rear with Priest. Blackjack and the others were close enough that if this place tried to spit us out, they’d see which way the teeth were angled.
My ribs throbbed with each step. My hand kept wanting to drift back, to touch the patch on my cutlike that could anchor me.
It didn’t.
Eleven was offices. A few framed walls, open ceilings. A couple of doors already hung, others leaning against the studs. The air smelled like dust. The building would have been too big for us to clear ourselves had it been fully finished. Fortunately, in its current state, we could see from one side to the other on many of the floors.
Once we got to the landing for twelve, I eased the door open. I slipped through with Valkyrie tight on my flank, barrel leading.
The first thing I saw was a shoe.
A black dress shoe, polished enough to catch the overhead work light. Attached to a leg in dark slacks. Attached to a man who wasn’t moving.
He lay half-in, half-out of an office doorway, face turned away. Blood had soaked his collar and dried in a dark halo on the concrete.
