“Too bad,” Wyte said.

Bosun said, “Drop them in the water. Or I’ll leave you here.”

Framed by the doorway, gray water shadows leaking all over him, Bosun didn’t look human. Didn’t look real. Seemed to be receding from them while all around the sounds of the Spit became stronger. Like a drumbeat that faded in one place, picked up with a different tempo in another.

Wyte said, “Again, why the fuck should we do that?”

“Because,” Finch said, “we don’t know where we are.” And if he’d wanted to kill us, he’d have done it already.

Bosun’s smile widened while Wyte cursed, said, “Do you know who we work for?”

We work for monsters. We work for ourselves.

As if in a dream, Finch watched himself toss his gun into the water. It entered like a diver, headfirst. The water parted for it. Disappeared without a splash. A kind of relief came over him. A kind of acceptance. The gun had been nothing but trouble. The gun had always caused problems.

Wyte gave Finch a look of betrayal. Hesitated. Bosun receded farther. Wyte could shoot Bosun. Then they’d be lost, in hostile territory. Or Wyte could miss and Bosun would be gone anyway. Or Wyte could get rid of his gun and Bosun would leave them. But Finch didn’t think that would happen.

He tugged the gun from Wyte’s reluctant hands. Threw it in the water as Wyte muttered, “A mistake, Finch. A mistake.”

Finch demanded it of Bosun: “Stark.”

“Stark,” Bosun said, nodding.

Then Bosun was just a wide back again, a kind of door himself. Leading them somewhere dangerous.

But a few minutes later, Bosun stopped again. This time inside an old tugboat. Finch right there beside him, back sore from stooping. Wyte behind them, still in the last, much larger boat. Exuding a muddled aura of defeat.

Then he was gone. Finch could sense it. Wyte there, behind him. Then not. A kind of wind or impact punching the air. A muffled shout. Cut off. Finch turned and saw just the outline of doorways receding in a ragged infinite number back the way they’d come. Nothing but shadow otherwise. Whirled around to Bosun, deck rising and falling beneath his feet.

Bosun stood there. Arms folded, watching.

Finch fought the urge to close the distance. To hurt Bosun. Fought it. Knew that self-control would save his life. Maybe save Wyte’s life. Knew now, too, that Stark didn’t give a shit about gray cap retaliation. Didn’t care that Heretic would be after him if he snuffed out two detectives.

“Where’s my partner? Where are you taking him?” Tried to keep his voice level.

If you hurt him …

Bosun shrugged, said, “Doesn’t want to see him. Just you. Wyte’s not safe. We don’t know where he’s been. You’ll see him later. Take off your shoes.”