She’d made her way across the elevator bank to the south tower—away from the sarin. But it didn’t make the flights up any easier.
Perhaps the worst thing about it was how Ethan’s head rocked from side to side, like a bowling ball in a sack slung over your shoulder. Gravity pulled it one way. Then another. Then an entirely different way. It was unpredictable.
Ania took comfort in what would happen once she reached the thirty-sixth floor. If those watching had been satisfied with her performance on the landing, then there was not much left to accomplish.
She needed only to release the belt buckle holding Amy Felton in place, and drag her back into her office. She suspected she’d be dead from fright. If not, another neck snap, and she could finally join her beloved Ethan.
David was in the conference room, paralyzed, awaiting final interrogations. There were three questions she needed to ask, and then she could end his life, too.
And then it would be time to collect Jamie.
Most likely, he’d passed out, and was still in the empty office where she’d left him. If he’d wandered away, he’d find nothing but horrors. Either way, she would find him somewhere on thirty-six, docile, awaiting rescue.
In Europe, he’d be free to write whatever he liked.
She hoped he’d get along with her mother.
Nichole decided to start with the fingers. Maybe he was paralyzed for real; maybe he wouldn’t feel a thing. But she’d make him tell her what was going on. Whoops, David, there goes your ring finger. And most of the pinkie. Want to try for a thumb? After a while, he had to start caring.
And start telling her how to bring this floor out of lockdown.
“God, what are you doing?”
Jamie, the drone. Watching her hold the gun to David’s hand, placing the barrel at the spot where the index finger met palm.
Jamie, cradling his own hand protectively.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“You want to get out of here, don’t you?” Nichole asked. “I need him to start giving me answers.”
She pulled the trigger.
Almost at the same time Jamie said, “No!”
David appreciated the concern from Jamie; he really did. But there was no need. He was more or less numb from the neck down.
As a result, his body was vaguely aware of the loss. A finger was nothing to take lightly. Especially his index finger—one of the more useful digits of the human hand. But it wasn’t as if David could move his hand anyway. He told his body this, and his body shrugged and said, Hey, it’s your body.
David gritted his teeth and pretended to be in some kind of pain. He even winced. Showmanship to the end.
What did the Moscow Rules say?
“It’s your thumb next,” he heard her say.
Sure, that would be natural.
Maybe she planned on doing all ten fingers, which would be wonderful. The more time Nichole spent torturing him, the less time she had to make it off this floor. That was the only thing he cared about now; everybody staying on the floor until the explosives did their job.
“Two seconds to decide, David.”
His glanced at his hand, and saw Nichole had a gun pointed at the base of his thumb this time. She was bringing out the big hurt early. It was best to start with a small finger, because when you feel how bad it hurts to lose, say, a pinkie, the pain of losing a thumb or index finger seems unfathomable.
But hey, it was her show.
David was finished being her mentor.
Meanwhile, Jamie looked sick to his stomach.
“Jamie,” he said, “if there’s still champagne and orange juice on the table, I suggest you mix yourself a drink.”
David would rather see Jamie fall asleep than burn up alive. Or worse—try to leap from the windo—
Ah.
The thumb.
Thirty-five hundred miles away, McCoy finally figured out how to tap into the building’s security cameras. There was nothing of interest in the north fire tower. He found what he wanted in the south tower.
Girlfriend.
Dragging the corpse of Ethan Goins up one flight of concrete stairs after another, which had to be a real pain in the ass. But McCoy knew—and Girlfriend knew—that leaving his body in the fire tower wouldn’t work. It needed to be on the thirty-sixth floor. Burned up with the rest of the bodies. That was the operation.
He also knew Girlfriend must be bitterly disappointed—she’d had other plans for Mr. Goins.
She must be a little worried. Her audition, so far, was more than a little shaky.
And she had started out so strong.
The arrangement had been simple: Execute Murphy, then demonstrate her skills on those present. One by one, over the course of an hour or so. Nothing terribly fancy, but demonstrating her varied abilities, knowing she was being observed on the network of fiber-optic cameras covering the office.
If Girlfriend’s demonstration was impressive enough, she would receive the tools to escape the floor. Everything above thirty would burn. She would be extracted from the city, and given her reward: a promotion.
The pay hike wasn’t enough to retire to a life of coconuts and limes and backrubs on some tropical island, but it was enough to change your perspective on life. Many people coveted leadership positions within CI-6, even though the agency had no official name or structure. Faith in CI-6 leadership was much like the nation’s faith in the American dollar: powered by sheer will and absolutely nothing tangible like a congressional mandate. (Hah!) Still, the power and resources available to leadership were astounding.
For Girlfriend, ascending the ranks had more practical appeal. A promotion meant she could choose her location. In this case, Europe. She desperately longed to return to the continent. McCoy had enjoyed reading her screeds about the state of the American city, particularly Philadelphia, encoded in their communications over the past few months.
It also meant she could afford to take her mother out of the assisted-living hellhole in Poland and put her somewhere to die with dignity. Maybe even prolong her life by a few months, or as much as a year.
Girlfriend wasn’t about the coconuts and backrubs.
Or was she?
That was the puzzling thing about the events of the morning. It had gotten off to a rocky start, with one of David’s younger reports … who was it … ah, Stuart McCrane, actually drinking the poisoned mimosa with little to no prompting. Stuart must have been a Boy Scout or an altar boy.
Then there was Ethan Goins, who had failed to report to the conference room on time.
In her defense, Girlfriend had tried to salvage the situation at the last minute:
No, no. We can start without him.
Are you …
