“They’ll have all the firepower lined up along Northern Avenue, many of them in plainclothes. They’ll be waiting for the attack there.”

Carpio pulled a satchel from behind his back. “There is one more thing you must do,” he said.

A shiver ran up Martin’s spine, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze blowing through the cemetery. “I’ve done what you asked.”

“And you have been paid.”

“You still owe me another fifty thousand.”

“There is one hundred thousand in this bag,” Carpio said, holding the satchel up.

Martin’s mind raced. There was no way to say no. And the allure of an additional fifty thousand dollars was too great to ignore. “What do you want me to do?”

“In the confusion that we create, someone still needs to take my brother’s chains off.”

Martin shook his head. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Someone will see me, and what’s the point of the money if I’m in jail?”

“You will do it,” Carpio insisted. “No one will see you because they will be running for their own lives. And jail is not the fate you should be most concerned about at this moment.” He threw the bag of money at Martin’s feet. It landed softly in the snow, and Martin stared at it with terror, as though it was filled with snakes rather than cash. He’d feared that it would come to something like this when he took the first payment, but there was nothing he could do now. He was caught, and he was addicted. He needed the money now, like a junkie needed his fix.

“Even if he makes it to the boats, there’s no way for you to escape in the harbor,” Martin said. “The cops will have our boats out there in a matter of minutes, and there’s no place to hide on the open water.”

“Who said the water will be open?” Carpio responded. And with that, he turned and walked back toward the airport. Martin watched him go and wondered what he meant. After a moment, he gave a labored sigh and picked up the bag. At this point, none of the choices he had were his own anymore.

Kit was at Devens before midnight. She wouldn’t leave now. From this point on, she would be near Vincente Carpio wherever he went.

She’d spent some time monitoring him from the control room. He was awake, and he sat as still as ever—just staring ahead, the tattoos covering his skull shining like some rubber mask. She wondered whether it was sweat, but she couldn’t tell from the camera. “I’m going down to see him,” she told the young corrections officer who was in the control room.

“You’re going where?” he asked, shocked.

“I’m going down to see him,” she repeated.