He’d spent days scoping out the Torre Mayor’s deliveries entrance while pretending to be fiddling with the Shadow’s engine in a nearby parking lot – and by now, he thought he had a pretty solid plan for how he could get the team in there and up the service elevator. Juan’s white van would be perfect; half the deliveries came in white vans. Though the service elevator would be sure to have that top floor locked off too, they could reach the floor below, then take the stairwell, where he’d shoot out the security cameras immediately. The sudden blank screens in the security office would no doubt bring someone to check the cause within minutes, but they’d be in by then – it would take no time at all to get up the stairs and shoot the door open with a silenced pistol. If they could get to the Council quickly after that, Alex thought their chances of getting in and out alive weren’t terrible. It was conceivable that they could get down in the main elevator and be out the front door before anyone even figured out what had happened – especially in the chaos of all the angels suddenly vanishing.

It was that word “quickly” that kept him awake at night and made him keep the plan firmly to himself. Because they just didn’t know what was going on now. They couldn’t be sure of getting to the Council quickly when they had no idea if the schedule was still the right one; no idea what the layout was, or what room the Twelve would be in. Alex had nightmare visions of the team wandering around, looking in doors, while security came racing towards them, having tipped off the angels that there were intruders in their midst.

The train came to Zócalo station; Alex stood up abruptly. The others looked at him in surprise – their stop was still several stations away. “Let’s get off here,” he said, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his sweatshirt. “I want to check something out.”

As they came up the stairs from the station, they could hear shouting on the sidewalk – there was a shoving match going on between some of the Crusaders and the Faithful. “My mother is dying!” screamed a man. His face was wild, contorted with fury. “There are no beds for her, no doctors—”

“If she had true faith, the angels would help her!” bellowed someone back. There were signs waving; elbows flying as people scuffled. Alex and the others skirted around them; a man in a business suit lurched backwards and just as quickly flung himself back into the fray. Trish looked worried as they passed, glancing back over her shoulder. Alex could see that she wanted to somehow defuse the tension, just as she always wanted to smooth things over for the group.

“Alex, that looks like it could get serious—” she started.