~ 47 ~
PEYTON
Returning to New York should’ve felt like a homecoming. Like coming full circle, considering everything we’d been through since Nantucket.
Instead, stepping off the plane felt loud and angry — especially after the peaceful silence of the glass house. My mind focused on layer upon layer of background noise; humming engines and distant horns. A storm of overlapping voices, floating in on air that felt heavier than Iceland, but no less cold.
“Welcome back,” Ripley muttered, urging me down the ramp.
“Yeah, thanks,” I grunted. “It’s not like I miss it.”
“That’s because you’ve never done it with us,” he winked.
Colson had left the aircraft ten minutes before us. He was down on the tarmac now, eyes scanning. He was looking for threats, identifying exits. Making sure that our next, final steps were safe ones. Or at least, as safe as possible.
“Keep moving,” Theo urged from behind us. “Thefaster the better.”
We melded into another group, then filed together into the private terminal. It all happened right on cue; from grabbing our bags, to the short customs line, to being processed straight through. The identities Theo arranged for us ahead of time passed initial scrutiny without issue. They’d continue to come up clean — at least for the next few hours — but a few hours was all we really needed.
Colson checked the pearl-colored SUV at the end of the tarmac, then urged us inside. The driver remained silent. He didn’t so much as look back at us, as we rolled slowly forward and into the maze of departing exit ramps from JFK airport.
A half hour later, we were inching our way through Manhattan. Just one of almost a quarter of a million vehicles, crawling through the congested veins of New York City. Colson stared out every window, as Theo’s fingers worked the keyboard that rested in his lap. Even hidden away, I felt exposed. I found myself missing the glass house, and the silent, snowy plain. The one where Ripley had worked me over with judo holds and hip throws, so many, many times.
“What’s happening,” I asked, nudging Theo gently.
He paused to look up at me, while fixing his glasses.
“Know how we’ve been bleeding Donovan slowly?”
“Yes.”
“Well now I’m cutting the arteries.”
My heart started beating a little faster.
“Isn’t he going to notice?”
“Oh, he’ll notice all right,” Theo confirmed grimly. “Especially tomorrow, when we financially slit his throat.”
The plan was more stumbled upon, than actually devised. Our leaks had wreaked havoc, it seemed. After several embarrassing arrests involving associates he was tangentially involved with, Donovan Prescott was in full damage control mode. Tomorrow evening, he’d be a holding a very large, very public gala, in the Upper East Side. There would be A-list celebrities. High-level guests. Tons of press and streaming news conferences, culminating in a lavish, expensive dinner meant to assuage the fears of his closest allies.
Most of Billionaire’s row would be empty; all congregating into the two-hundred-year-old ballroom of some Park Avenue hotel. It was the ideal time to spring our trap. The perfect place to blow up his ever-closing world.
The whole thing made me excited and sick, at the same time.
“Get ready,” muttered Colson. We’re almost there.”
After another few blocks, the vehicle finally lurched to a stop. We exited quickly, crossed the sidewalk, and stepped into the art deco-style foyer of a tall, glass building. From the street it was generic and nondescript. Inside, the vibrant colors and bold geometric shapes gave it an instant, centuries-old charm.
We rode the mirrored elevator together in silence, all the way to the thirty-sixth floor. The doors opened into a vaulted penthouse, with clean lines and expensive furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows reminded me sharply of our safe house in Iceland, only these overlooked the grandeur of the city.
Theo dropped his bag first. He inhaled, stretched, then let it out slowly.
“What is this place?” I asked, spinning in a slow circle.
“It’s Donovan’s,” chuckled Theo.
“You’re kidding.”
