The weapon is merely an extension of your arm. Aim yourself, not the weapon.

(But she hadn’t been aiming at all when she’d been at the airport. She’d been on her belly like a scared rabbit, shooting blind—the most pointless and dangerous of practices with a firearm.)

“You understand me? I changed my mind, okay? Let me . . . and just leave. I’ll give . . . demmies.”

“You ain’ tole me where we goin’. Where this place we gotta look through? You tell me that first. Where? Tell me!”

“You’re not going anywhere. I want you to go away.”

Sachs started up the stairs slowly.

Thinking: Draw your target, check your background, squeeze three. Return to cover. Draw, squeeze three more if you have to. Cover. Don’t get rattled.

(But she had been rattled at the airport. That terrible bullet snapping past her face . . .)

Forget it. Concentrate.

Up a few more stairs.

“An’ now you sayin’ I don’t get ’em fo’ free, right? Now you sayin’ I gotta pay. You motherfuck!”

Stairs were the worst. Knees, her weak spot. Fucking arthritis . . .

“Here. Here’s a dozen demmies. Take ’em and go!”

“A dozen. And I ain’ gotta pay you?” He brayed a laugh. “A dozen?”

Approaching the top of the stairs.

She could almost peer into the station itself. She was ready to shoot. He moves any direction more than six inches, girl, take him out. Forget the rules. Three head shots. Pop, pop, pop. Forget the chest. Forget—

Suddenly the stairs vanished.

“Ugh.” A grunt from deep in her throat as she fell.

The step she’d placed her foot on was a trap. The riser had been removed and the step rested only on two shoe boxes. They collapsed under her weight and the concrete slab pitched downward, sending her backward down the stairs. The Glock flew from her hand and as she started to shout, “Ten-thirteen!” she realized that the cord linking her headset to her Motorola had been yanked out of the radio.

Sachs fell with a thud onto the concrete-and-steel landing. Her head slammed into a pole supporting the handrail. She rolled onto her stomach, stunned.

“Oh, great,” the white guy’s voice muttered from the top of the stairs.

“Who the fuck that?” the black voice asked.

She lifted her head and caught a glimpse of two men standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at her.

“Shit,” the black man muttered. “Fuck. What the fuck goin’ on here?”

The white guy snagged a baseball bat and started down the stairs.

I’m dead, she thought. I’m dead.

The switchblade rested in her pocket. It took every ounce of energy to get her right arm out from underneath her. She rolled onto her back, fishing for the knife. But it was too late. He stepped on her arm, pinning it to the ground, and he gazed down at her.

Oh, man, Rhyme, blew it bad. Wish we’d had a better farewell night . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .