Page 94 of Guilty as Sin

“As many as you can,” I tell Blackbird.

In the time it takes for me to walk from the bathroom to the elevator, I hear ten sniper shots from the roof across the street. As I manually force the elevator doors open, I hear ten more, then a spray of assault rifles down at the front entrance.

“Nineteen down, one injured,” Blackbird says over the radio. “Limping, but he’s made it to the lobby with the others.”

“Alright, thirty in the lobby,” I confirm. “Finn, that’s your cue.”

I peer down the plummet of the elevator shaft. The sensation of vertigo spikes my adrenaline. There’s more assault rifle fire from the first floor, and it echoes strangely up the elevator shaft.

A siren song to the violence within me.

I wrap my towel around the thickest cable, while Connor gapes at me from his position outside Cora’s door. He’s shaking bad, both hands clutching my gun.

I imagine the blanks inside rattling like dice.

“Every Vanleusen man you see,” I remind him.

Then I grab hold of the towel and rappel down the elevator cable.

Chapter 44

Cora

I am equal parts fury and despair.

Fury, because Brady promised he’d involve me in our life, then locked me in here like a helpless weakling while he gets to charge out and confront the danger himself.

Despair, because even though I have a mystery key in my hand, I can find no keyhole on the inside of this fucking door.

I kneel naked in the bathroom to inspect the locked vault access. On the other side of this door, there’s a bookshelf, with hundreds of different books to choose from. You have to know the right choice, Ealaín na Cogaíochta, the Irish translation of The Art of War.

But here on the inside, there’s only this solid metal door, its three-spoke vault handle immovable no matter how hard I strain against it.

My panic rises, nearly choking me. But I swallow it down, down into the depths of myself, where my stubborn viciousness resides. In response, my fury raises her head.

I force myself to stand up, to take a deep breath. I stride back to the dressing room and don my clothes, reminding myself of who I am.

I am Muloney, and I was raised mafia. I am O’Sullivan, and I excel at this life.

I am Cora, and that is power.

When I approach the locked door again, it is with a calm, clear head. There’s not a choice in this single slab of metal, not like there is among the books on the other side.

I step back to examine not the door, but the wall beside it, covered with hundreds of silky Carrara tiles. Hundreds of choices.

Starting as high as I can reach, I press each tile, working methodically down the offset columns. If the correct tile is above my reach, I’ll drag the chaise from the closet and stand on that. If the keyhole isn’t behind a secret tile but hidden somewhere else in this room, I’ll find it.

Time is against me, but determination and a rational approach are on my side.

I make it to the third column of tiles, nearly a forearm’s length away from the door. There’s no way the keyhole would be this far from—Holy shit.

The tile beneath my fingers pops open, greeting me with its cool marble serenity. I pry it out of place, and there it is.

A keyhole.

Enough time has passed that Brady must be out of the building by now. Holding my breath, I slide the heavy-duty key into the lock.

When I turn it, the resulting click is the most satisfying sound in the world.