Chapter 28
CASSIAN
I stare out the tinted window of the heavily armored SUV, watching the Manhattan skyline rise out of the dark river fog as we cross the Queensboro Bridge.
Varro is driving. Iris sits perfectly still in the back.
I check the load on my SIG for the fourth time. Pressing the release, I drop the magazine into my palm, my thumb grazing the cold brass casings of the hollow-point rounds to verify the feed before slapping it back into the grip. The sharp clack echoes loudly in the confined space.
Varro glances at me from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m wound too tight.
My left shoulder throbs, a dull, vicious burn that pulses in sync with my elevated heartbeat.
The painkillers I took in the bunker have taken the sharpest edge off, reducing the blinding agony to a manageable ache, but the torn muscle is stiff.
My mobility on that side is severely compromised.
In a close-quarters knife fight, a delay of a fraction of a second could cost me my life.
But I have no intention of letting anyone get close enough to her to use a knife tonight.
“Two minutes to the drop,” Varro says, breaking the silence.
I turn around in my seat and look into the back.
Iris is staring out the tinted window, the sharp lines of her face intermittently illuminated by the passing amber glow of the streetlights.
“How is your heart rate?” I ask her.
Her eyes meet mine in the shadows of the backseat.
“Steady,” she says.
“Keep it that way,” I tell her. “When he walks into that room, he’s going to actively look for the frightened, broken girl who left that voicemail.
He’s going to look for weakness. If he sees the cold woman sitting in this car right now, his guard goes up immediately.
Play the victim, Iris. Sell the terror.”
“I know how to act for him,” she says flatly, the lack of emotion in her voice stark in the quiet car. “I’ve had twenty-four years of rehearsal.”
Varro kills the headlights as we turn sharply off the main avenue, rolling onto the narrow, hidden service street running behind the Waldorf Museum. We navigate the alleyway in total darkness, guided only by the ambient, glowing smog of the city above us.
We park next to the industrial dumpsters, pulling into the spot where Iris’s silver Audi sat about a week ago before Varro took it to a chop shop to cover our tracks.
“Comms check,” Varro says, tapping his ear.
“Check,” I reply, adjusting the receiver.
Iris reaches up and taps her microscopic earpiece. “Check.”
Varro shifts the SUV into park but leaves the engine idling.
“I have the perimeter completely locked down in a two-block radius,” he reports, pulling up a glowing digital map on the console screen.
“Team 6 is in position covering all four exits. The city street cameras have been successfully looped. We’ve tapped the local precinct dispatch.
If the NYPD happens to route a cruiser past the front steps, we’ll know three minutes before they turn the corner. We own this grid.”
“What are the rules of engagement for Hale’s security?” I ask, my eyes scanning the dark alleyway.
“If he brings his private detail, we let them park,” Varro says, confirming the plan.
“We let them set up a perimeter outside. My men are running suppressed rifles with thermal optics. We don’t engage unless his men attempt to breach the building or you give the direct order.
The objective is to make the museum look abandoned, so Hale walks inside. ”
“And if they move on the loading dock while I’m inside?”
“We drop them before they hit the door,” Varro says coldly.
“Good.” I push the passenger door open. “Let’s go.”
I step out into the humid night air. Iris slides out of the back, her boots hitting the wet asphalt with a soft thud.
We walk silently to the loading bay door. The red LED light on the security keypad blinks in the pitch black.
Iris steps right up to the keypad. Without hesitating, she reaches out and punches in the numbers.
6 - 7 - 2 - 9 - 0 - #
The keypad flashes red. A negative buzz echoes in the alley.
ACCESS DENIED.
I step up beside her. “They changed the vendor codes after the hit.”
I inspect the terminal. “It’s hardwired to the main server. If I brute-force it from out here, it triggers a silent alarm at the precinct.”
“So how do we get in?” she asks.
“We bypass the digital relay,” I tell her, pulling a slim pry tool from my belt. “I have to pop the faceplate and cross the internal wires.”
I wedge the tool into the seam. I grip the handle with my right hand and try to brace my left hand against the brick wall for leverage.
The instant I put weight on my left side, the torn muscle in my shoulder seizes.
A spike of pain shoots down my arm. I drop my left hand, my jaw clenching hard enough to snap a bone.
“Cassian,” she says, stepping closer. “Stop. You’re going to tear the muscle open again.”
“I can do it,” I grate out.
“Give it to me,” she orders.
I look down at her. I hate showing physical weakness, especially to her, but we don’t have time for pride.
I hand her the tool.
“Slide it into the top right corner,” I instruct, stepping closely behind her. My chest brushes her back as I look over her shoulder to guide her hands. “Push hard until you feel the retaining clip snap.”
She wedges the tip into the seam. She leans her body weight into the door, pushing until a sharp crack sounds. The faceplate pops off, dangling by a cluster of wires.
“Good,” I murmur. “Look for the green and yellow wires. Don’t touch the red.”
She isolates them.
“Pull your knife,” I tell her.
She reaches down to the sheath at her hip and draws the black blade.
“Strip the casing and touch the copper together,” I instruct.
She shaves the insulation off the wires. Her hands are steady. She pinches the exposed ends together. A blue spark jumps against her fingertips, followed by the clunk of the magnetic locks disengaging.
The door swings open a fraction of an inch.
I catch it with my right hand and pull it open.
“After you,” I say.
She steps into the service corridor. I follow, pulling the door shut behind us, plunging us into the dark.
We move past the industrial kitchens. As we reach the end of the corridor where it opens into the Grand Hall, I spot a flicker of light.
I grab Iris’s arm and shove her flat against the wall, shielding her body with my own.
“Motion,” I whisper.
I peer around the corner. A security gate blocks the archway. On the other side, two guards are walking the perimeter of the marble floor, sweeping the exhibits with flashlights.
“They upgraded the physical security,” I murmur. “We can’t pick that gate without them seeing us.”
I reach toward my chest, my fingers curling around the grip of the SIG. “I’ll neutralize them. Quietly.”
Iris grabs my wrist.
“No,” she whispers fiercely.
“Iris, we have thirty minutes. If they walk down this corridor, we are compromised.”
“You told me your father had a strict code,” she reminds me. “You keep the violence away from civilians. Those men are just night watchmen. You don’t get to execute them just because they’re in our way.”
I stare down at her. The lethal calculation in my brain battles with the truth of her words. She’s throwing my own code right back at me.
“If they trigger the radio, the trap is over,” I warn.
“They won’t trigger the radio,” she says. She lets go of my wrist. “Stay in the shadows. Keep your gun holstered.”
“Iris, what are you doing?”
She steps out from behind the wall and walks directly into the corridor, heading straight toward the gate.
Her boots thud on the floor.
Instantly, two flashlight beams snap toward her.
“Hey!” one of the guards shouts. “Stop right there! Put your hands in the air!”
I draw my gun, stepping close enough to the edge to drop both men if they twitch.
But Iris doesn’t raise her hands. She stands perfectly straight, summoning the coldest, most entitled version of the socialite she used to be.
“Lower those weapons this instant,” she snaps, her voice ringing with unquestionable authority. “And get these lights out of my eyes.”
The flashlights waver, dropping slightly.
“Ma’am, this building is closed,” the lead guard says, his tone uncertain. “How did you get in here?”
“I used the loading bay terminal,” she says sharply, stepping up to the mesh. “I am Iris Hale. My father is Judge William Hale, the Chairman of the Waldorf Board. You work for him.”
The second guard lowers his weapon. “Ms. Hale?”
“My father is arriving in twenty-five minutes for an unannounced inspection of the VIP Study,” she lies smoothly. “He sent me ahead to ensure the new security protocols are functioning. Clearly, they are. Now open this gate.”
The lead guard hesitates. “We didn’t get a memo about an inspection tonight.”
“Because it’s a blind audit, Officer Miller,” she says.
Her eyes flick to his name tag for a split second before locking back onto his.
“Frankly, the fact that you are interrogating me instead of securing the East Wing tells me you are failing the drill. Open the gate. Unless you want me to call my father right now and tell him his new security firm is actively obstructing his family.”
The threat lands perfectly. Miller holsters his weapon, pulls a ring of keys, and unlocks the deadbolt. He slides the barrier open.
“Apologies, Ms. Hale,” Miller says. “We’re just following protocol since the incident last week.”
“I appreciate your diligence,” she says, her tone softening enough to reward his compliance. “But my father requires privacy tonight. Take your patrol to the East Wing exhibits and stay there until I give you the all-clear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. East Wing,” Miller confirms quickly.
The two guards turn and walk away, their flashlight beams bouncing into the distant corridors.
Iris waits until their footsteps fade.