“The cameras will still be recording but their screens won’t show it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I can’t use the signal for us to see anything. So you’ll be walking blind.”

“How come?”

“I’m not exactly on Azar’s payroll anymore, asshole. I don’t get the top-notch tech. This is all we got.” Again Kong strikes a screen. The picture wavers, then stabilizes. He points out our path through the labyrinthine corridors of Azar’s facility. It’s a long way to go, and because he can’t view us through the video signal he’s going to have to talk us through it.

He proceeds to give us a quick talent primer—the most important part of which is to do exactly what he says at all times, no matter how counterintuitive it sounds—does a last sound check on our earpieces, and looks us over critically like an angry den mother.

“All right,” he says. “You’re not going to get any readier. Let’s crack and go.”

“Do what?” I say, but Jagjeet is already rolling an ankle in his hands. The joint cracks and pops like dry kindling a few times and then goes quiet. He does the same to his wrists.

“Jesus Christ,” Kong says. “Get the cracks out. Come on. I don’t like sitting out here in a chi-mo van waiting to get made. Crack and fucking go, already.”

I do, and thirty seconds later I am standing before a riveted metal doorway in an alleyway, staring at a skein of electronics with wire strippers in my hand. In accordance with Kong’s detailed instructions, I snip this, strip that, mate those, and then the door retracts sideways into a sleeve, elevator style.

“Holy shit,” I say. “It worked.”

In the earpiece Kong grunts.

“You don’t think that’s a good start?”

“Do I think that’s a good start? Azar’s in there. Jimmy the Hat is in there. Probably dozens of guys armed with real guns loaded with real bullets are in there. And look at us. We’re using tech that runs on hamsters. Jeet’s got no gun. I got no hands. You got one leg. We’re all going to die. That’s what I think.” Then he groans, makes a corrective noise in his throat. I’ve retained the title for the duration of this job—it was the only way I could think of to prevent him from bolting the scene after we got inside—and even though it clearly pains him to be nice to me in any way whatsoever, he doesn’t want to discourage me. He needs me to come out of there alive, with the title to my boat.

Correction: his boat.

“I mean, good luck, guys,” he says at last. “Go team.”

Reunited

Reunited