The south staircase was clear on the first two floors.
Tav descended with Alistair's hand on his jacket — not steadying, just present, the direct touch of someone choosing contact over distance — and his shoulder talking to him in the particular way of injuries that had been asked to do more than they should.
He was managing it.
"You're listing left," Alistair said.
"I know."
"The shoulder—"
"Is manageable." He kept moving. "Second floor's clear. Third is the risk."
Third floor: the fire door. The approach from street level for anyone who had identified the rooftop access and positioned for the descent. If Cain's team had a ground presence beyond the surveillance vehicle, the third-floor landing was where they'd stage for an intercept.
Tav slowed at the second-floor landing. Listened.
Silence from above. Below: footsteps on the first floor, ascending, unhurried as if they expected to meet no resistance.
One person. Moving with professional spacing from the wall.
He looked at Alistair.
Alistair had already read it. His expression was the focused professional version, all warmth temporarily in storage. He gestured: you left, I right, and Tav shook his head slightly and pointed at himself and down.
Alistair's jaw tightened.
Then he moved right without arguing, because the argument would have taken time they didn't have, and he understood operational geometry even when he disliked it.
The fire door opened.
The contractor came through at a run — weapon up, moving fast, the momentum of someone operating on a clear brief. Tav was already positioned. The geometry was good: the landing's limited space compressed the engagement, and Tav's knowledge of exactly where the other person would plant their weight when the door swung meant he had the angle half a second before the contractor realized it.
Three seconds of contact.
Clean. Efficient.
Then the shot.
Tav felt it before he heard it — the impact arriving ahead of the report, the sensation he'd learned to recognize with the clinical distance he had decided early that pain was information rather than experience. High on the left side. The already-damaged shoulder, the graze from the parapet compounded now."
He registered: not arterial. Lung clear. He was breathing normally.
Manageable.
He went down to one knee.
Got back up.
The contractor who'd fired was at the far end of the corridor — a second one he'd missed, positioned at the corridor's bend in the classic two-point setup. The shot hadbeen suppressed and fast and the contractor was retreating now, which meant extraction rather than elimination, which meant Cain's orders had been specific about the outcome they wanted.
Not to kill. To disable.
Separate.
Tav understood immediately what that meant. If Alistair was mobile and he wasn't, they could be split. And a split pair with a drive was a solvable problem in a way a united pair wasn't.
He started moving.
