The apartment lobby is still and silent. The sun’s angle shifts westward, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Only the lapping of the pool and the reflection of sunlight on water betray any sign of movement. A faint thumping comes from the security office—the sound of a tied-up computer hacker trying to free himself and failing.
All in all, the lobby is creepy as hell.
Exactly how I want it.
For a few minutes, everything is quiet. And then, a shadow detaches itself from the stairwell. The figure is dressed in dark colors, moving swiftly from the stairs to beside one of the potted plants. Then they dart to the next plant.
They’re acting like prey.
That casts me in the role of hunter.
As a shaft of sunlight hits the figure, I recognize her. It’s Carla, Our Lady of the Jammers. Her monocle visor glitters as she scans the lobby. She pauses by one of the large potted succulents, kneeling in a way that makes me think she’s carrying a gun. Her arms are straight, holding something pointed at the floor.
Let her look. She’ll never find me.
I’m watching her through Edgar’s eyes—and he is perched on the back of a pool chair.
A crackle of radio static makes her jerk in surprise.
“Carla.” My voice filters through the radio’s speaker. The sound echoes oddly against the marble and the pool water.
“Carla,” I say again. And then, because it’s the creepiest thing I can think of, “I see you.”
Carla stiffens. Her head moves back and forth, scanning the lobby.
“Over here,” I say helpfully, and her gaze zeroes in on the place where I put Anasova’s radio. Where my voice is coming from.
On Matthew’s dead body.
I can tell she doesn’t want to look at it. Her jaw tightens. “Come out where I can see you, coward,” she says.
“Nope. Not negotiating unless it’s on the dead guy’s radio.” I need to lure her closer.
Carla winces. Her lips press into a line as she gazes at the corpse of the security guard.
“Why?” she says.
I let the silence answer for me.
Carla takes a deep breath, then another. She lifts her radio and says, “Hannah?”
Ah—she wants orders. Or backup. Or both.
“Do it,” says Vale. “If something goes wrong, I’ll send Corey.”
A flash of irritation crosses Carla’s face. “Why not send him now?”
“He’s looking for Persephone,” says Vale.
I see how it is.
Vale is testing me. She needs to know what tools her opponent is wielding, how far I will go. If I kill Carla, then Vale will learn what kind of person I am. And if I don’t… she’ll also learn.
Carla’s gaze tracks upward. I can see the thoughts playing out behind her eyes. It would be so easy for a sniper to be sitting on one of those upper floors, rifle perched on the railing.
Her hand goes to her belt. She unclips something small, presses her thumb to a button, and tosses it into the lobby. It looks like a small mechanical ball—and for one heart-stopping moment, I think she just tossed a grenade.
Then smoke begins to pour from it, gushing into the lobby.
