I loaded up the copies, stuffed them into my bag. I glanced at Ben, who just sat there in a stupor. “Why’d you stop by, anyway?”

He shook his head, dazed. “I honestly cannot remember.”

“Okay, then get out.” I held up my bag. “I’ve got work to do.”

Ben stood, headed for the door. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving before you make me lose my job.”

“I’ll call you later,” I said.

He waved me off. “If it’s from jail, don’t.”

I heard Ben trot down the stairs as I finished packing up. I made extra copies of Symonds’s file; I put one in my bag to show Marta, one in the safe under my desk, and a third I tucked into a stamped envelope addressed to a PO box I used for situations like this. I tossed the envelope into my out-box, like ordinary mail, then flicked the lights off, locked up, and raced down the stairs. I had car keys in my hand, my bag slung over my shoulder, eyes and ears on alert, scanning the street. Now that I knew for sure Spada was not above ending a life, I didn’t want mine to be the next one he took.

I heard a CTA bus in need of a brake job pick up steam two blocks over as I headed to the car. I kept my pace steady and took a deep breath, smelling rain, grease from Deek’s griddle . . . and cigarette smoke. I tensed, got a weird feeling, and eased my hand down into my bag for my gun, but that’s as far as I got.

Two men in dark colors shot out of nowhere. One man—wide, tall, built like a Mack truck—seized me by the front of my denim jacket, twisting me almost off my feet. He wore driving gloves. Leather. His hands looked as wide as catcher’s mitts. My bag tumbled off my shoulder, taking my gun with it. The force of the grab strangled the expletive in my throat. His accomplice angled himself somewhere behind me. I couldn’t see him.

I braced, fists raised, forearms out. I tried to break the viselike hold with short chops to the man’s forearms, but it was like chipping away at tempered steel. I tried to twist around to see the man behind me, but couldn’t. Cold sweat trickled down my back. This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Man Number 2 stepped around front. I craned to get a look at him. My feet barely touched the ground. He was at least six three, two hundred pounds. No gloves. He was black. He wore a gold signet ring on the right hand. I couldn’t make out the letter. He disappeared behind me again.

Dammit.