Chapter 38
We abandon the car four blocks out, which is close enough to matter and far enough to pretend it doesn’t.
Anything nearer would put us in range of cameras meant to catch plates, not people.
The Atlas Building rises ahead of us, all glass and authority, the kind of place that pretends transparency while hiding everything that matters.
We’re still walking when we pass the back entrance, and that’s when the plan finalizes itself.
Staff are arriving in plain clothes, jackets slung over shoulders, coffee cups in hand.
A service door stands propped open with a five-gallon bucket, metal scuffed and dented, doing more work than any security checkpoint ever will.
A few people linger off to the side, half-hidden by the building’s shadow, cigarettes burning down between fingers as they kill the last minutes before clock-in.
No badges. No scrutiny. Just routine.
Saint slows half a step. I glance at her, and she glances back. Nothing passes between us that anyone else would recognize as communication, but the agreement lands cleanly.
That’s the way in.
We pivot without breaking stride, turning toward the open door like it was always the destination. No hesitation. No adjustment. We walk in the way people do when they belong somewhere, when they’ve done it a thousand times before and expect to do it a thousand more.
No one looks up.
No one asks a question.
We follow the sound of lockers slamming shut, metal on metal, the rhythm of people arriving for work. It leads us down a narrower corridor where the air smells faintly of detergent and stale coffee, to a window cut into the wall with UNIFORMS stenciled above it in peeling letters.
A small line has already formed.
The people ahead of us are familiar to the teller.
Not friends, exactly, but known. One leans in with a half-smile and a comment about the shift.
Another complains about the air conditioning like it’s a shared joke.
Names aren’t exchanged, but recognition is enough.
The teller slides folded fabric across the counter without breaking conversation.
The person directly in front of us hesitates. Too long. Gives their size, voice careful. The teller doesn’t comment, doesn’t smile. Just reaches back and pulls a bundle from the shelf.
New, then. Or at least not liked enough to be remembered.
When it’s our turn, the teller’s eyes lift to us, waiting. Expectant. Not suspicious. Just ready to be told what to do.
Saint doesn’t pause. “Medium.”
I follow immediately. “Large.”
The words land like credentials.
The teller looks me up and down before turning away. Fabric appears on the counter, still warm from being stacked.
“They run a little small, baby.” She says to me, chewing a piece of gum that will likely be in her mouth all day.
Neutral jackets. Service shirts. Nothing with a name on it. Nothing that asks questions.
No ID or badge. No confirmation beyond the assumption that we wouldn’t be standing there if we didn’t belong.
I take note of it all.
The way systems rely on familiarity instead of verification. The way momentum replaces scrutiny. The way belonging is often just a matter of speaking first. It’s the exact level of relaxation that will be scrutinized once an assassination takes place today.
“No one ever looks at staff,” I murmur.
Saint doesn’t look at me. “Not even the staff.”
The locker room is crowded and loud, the kind of place where privacy is a suggestion at best. We don’t even consider the open benches. Weapons change the rules.
We split without comment, each taking a stall.
Fabric rustles. Boots scuff tile. I change fast, movements economical, aware of every sound on the other side of the thin divider. When I step back out, Saint is still inside. I wait, eyes on the door, on the exits, on the people who aren’t paying us any attention at all.
She emerges a moment later and crosses to a locker, opening it just wide enough to slide her backpack inside. She pushes it to the back, shuts the door, and spins the dial without flourish.
Then her gaze drops to the long black case in my hand.
She arches a brow. “You planning to balance that while passing caviar?”
I glance at the locker, then at the case. It doesn’t even pretend to belong.
“I’ll stash it,” I say.
We move out together, falling into step as the corridor opens up and the noise thins. The plan surfaces naturally, the way it always does when there’s motion to anchor it.
“I want eyes first,” I say. “We observe. See who circles Hartley. Who’s close without a reason. We don’t move until something moves.”
Saint is watching the flow of people, the way staff peel off toward kitchens and bars, the way security clusters without looking like clusters.
We pass an AV overflow room halfway down the hall, the door cracked open just enough to reveal stacked flight cases, coils of cable, a folding table pushed against the wall. Controlled chaos. Temporary. Unattended.
I slow without stopping. “Keep an eye out.”
She does, automatically, scanning the corridor as I slip inside. The case disappears into the stack with everything else that no one wants to inventory. Black on black. Identical. Invisible.
When I step back out, she’s already turned back toward me.
“This is wrong,” she says. “We should warn him.”
“No,” I reply. “We don’t tip the board unless we have to.”
“If we force movement, the assassin adjusts,” she counters. “That’s when they make mistakes.”
“Or they abort,” I say. “Or they accelerate.”
She stops walking. Just long enough to make the pause feel intentional. “Reaction reveals truth.”
“Patience keeps people alive.”
We’re circling it now, the same argument dressed in different clothes. Saint believes pressure exposes shape. I believe stillness does. Neither of us is wrong. That’s the problem.
She opens her mouth to respond—
—and then a cluster of staff in identical uniforms rounds the corner, moving fast and loose, talking quietly to one another. Trailing behind them is a short, plump woman with a clipboard and a permanent scowl, irritation radiating off her like heat.
She snaps her fingers. “You two. With the group.”
We hesitate half a second too long.
She stops walking and fixes us with a look that suggests she has ended careers for less. “I said move. You’re clocked in then you’re working. Not standing out here. Go.”
Saint falls into step without hesitation but she does give the woman a glare.
I don’t doubt for a second that if she weren’t currently prioritizing international stability, she would snap this woman in half and keep walking.
The woman follows for several paces, close enough to make sure we don’t peel off, her presence a physical barrier to conversation.
The argument of our plan dies unfinished.
We’re funneled through the kitchen doors into controlled chaos. Heat. Steam. The sharp clatter of trays. Someone presses a silver tray into my hands without looking at my face.
A chilled bottle of champagne is thrust into Saint’s grip, condensation slick against glass.
“Careful,” someone mutters. “Don’t drop that.”
We’re pushed forward again, momentum doing the work of command. The manager’s voice cuts through the noise as she strides past.
“Keynotes are arriving any minute. Eyes up. Smile. Keep moving.”
The line of staff surges forward, carrying us with it.
Ahead, the banquet room opens like a stage.
And whatever plan we had is about to be tested by proximity.
Out on the floor, the brunch is already in motion. Linen-draped tables, polished silverware, soft music meant to suggest refinement without demanding attention. The kind of event designed to look harmless, like power doesn’t eat croissants and drink mimosas.
Hartley arrives five minutes later.
He’s smaller than he looks on screens, but tighter somehow, compressed into himself by the weight of expectation.
His security detail is compact and disciplined, close enough to react without looking like a wall.
I clock spacing first, then exits, then lines of sight.
My brain runs the familiar calculations automatically.
My eyes do what they always do, sliding past faces and table settings to map the room the way a scope would. I mark distances without thinking, note elevations, sight lines, dead zones. It’s muscle memory, not strategy.
There are no clean angles.
No balconies with uninterrupted views. No high ground that wouldn’t immediately flag movement. The windows are decorative more than functional, glass broken up by structural beams that kill long shots before they start. Any elevated position here would be exposed, noisy, and slow.
A sniper would hate this room.
Close-range work is possible, technically. A blade in the crush of bodies. A syringe in a handshake. But that kind of kill sends a different message. Messy. Intimate. Improvised.
This won’t be that.
Whoever is staging this kill this didn’t intend subtlety or chaos.
Saint moves efficiently, distributing drinks, eyes always tracking Hartley’s orbit. I can feel her impatience like static. When she speaks again, it’s barely audible.
Saint drifts closer as we work, voice low enough to pass for idle commentary. “What do you think?” she asks. “If it were here, how would they do it?”
My attention doesn’t leave the room. “It won’t be today,” I say. Then, because my mouth is ahead of my judgment, I finish it. “It’ll be tonight.”
The word lands wrong. I feel it as soon as it’s out.
Saint goes still. Not frozen. Not startled. Just suddenly precise. She turns her head toward me, eyes sharp now, fully engaged.
“How do you know that?”
I release a sigh and my exasperation with it. “My broker… my sister texted earlier. Said it’s definitely tonight.”
“And you conveniently forgot to mention this,” she says, tone flat.
“I was distracted,” I say. Which is true. “A lot was happening.”
The explanation sounds thinner the longer it sits in the air. Her expression doesn’t harden. It sharpens.
Assessment, not anger.
I recognize the look immediately, and a cold weight settles in my chest. She doesn’t believe me. Or rather, she believes the information but not the omission. Trust doesn’t fracture loudly. It goes quiet. And hers is already gone for me.
I tell myself I’ll explain later. That this isn’t the place. That timing matters.
Saint hasn’t taken her eyes off Hartley for a full minute. “I’m warning him anyway.”
“No,” I say. “Wait.”
But she doesn’t. She makes her way over. Not too fast but fast enough I can’t rush over and stop her without drawing every eye in this room to me.
She adjusts her grip on the bottle she’s holding, angling her body just enough to bring Hartley into reach. The choice is written in the tension of her shoulders, the way her weight shifts forward.
I know she’s committing.
I should stop her.
I don’t.