“There’s an equipment room this way. If I’m going to get the Nakamura sword back I’m going to need gear. And I can’t go to my apartment now.”

Kong says, “This isn’t easy, people. Move.”

From the exit comes a grinding sound of hydraulic tug-of-war. The door inches out of the pocket and then retracts.

“No way,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.”

“The sword isn’t just a sword,” she says, almost pleading.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s got a microchip hidden in its hilt that has the tracker code of every single cargo box from the Saqueador.”

For a second I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then I remember. I also finally understand why Nakamura was willing to pay for a solo and floater—eight-fig treatment for a six-fig item: the sword is a treasure map to art worth hundreds of millions of dollars. All of which is already crated up for your convenience.

“It’s a Portuguese freighter carrying twenty thousand pieces of looted Iraqi art and—”

“I know what it is.”

“You do? But then you must understand that I have to—”

“I don’t care. We’re going through that door right now.”

I yank on her hand. She yanks back, hard. The specter of physicality crackles in the air between us. Charlie’s shoulders tense. My jaw vises together. I am very aware of the handcuffs in my pocket.

And the gun.

“Otto, I love you. I’m sorry I lied to you. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I hate myself for it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I promise. But I have to do this.”

“You’re not getting the sword,” I say tightly.

Behind her the door is in spasm. It closes halfway, seizes, then opens again.

Kong says, “Hurry up, idiots.”

“I know I’m overmatched,” Charlie says. “I’m not at my best. But I have to try.”

“You’re not going to.”

“I have to, Otto. Please understand.”

“It’s over, Charlie.”

I hold up the button. The light is blinking.

“I pressed it two minutes ago.”

She gives me a look that knifes into my heart. Her eyes goggle in pain at the blinking light. From her mouth comes a gasp that sounds like ripping fabric.

Unbeknownst to my tortured senses, a third party is present. As I am busy encoding forever the terrible vision of Charlie apprehending my betrayal, I do not perceive Herkimer until it is too late. The first I know of his propinquity is the blur of his fist smashing her cheek. Charlie, already doubled over, crumples to her knees. Before I can do anything more than emit a gurgle of shock, a punch precipitates me to the floor.