Andre said, ‘In fact …’ His head tilted slightly, like an idea had just landed. ‘Let’s do it like yesterday. You remember that? At the train station? Count down from five, and we go for it on one?’ Lips pulled back in a wide grin now, grey gum and the gold teeth on full display. ‘All you got to do this time is move. Five.’

Vincent looked past him to where Delroy was standing. ‘I know he’s a psychopath, but what’s your deal? What’ve you got on the line that you think all this is worth it?’

Andre said, ‘Four. Move, man. I’m serious.’

Still looking at Delroy, Vincent said, ‘How long you think you’ll last if you shoot me now? I’d give it a fifty–fifty chance police will pick you up before five pm tomorrow.’

Nothing.

Andre said, ‘Three.’

And Vincent stood aside.

He kept his eyes with Delroy and put his back to the hallway wall. He could feel his heart beating against the gypsum board.

Andre said, ‘Man, you’re no fun. Thought you’d at least get to two. Turn around and walk. I’m gonna follow.’

Vincent moved off the wall again, turned to face the lit office at the end of the corridor. He could see the end of Page’s desk, and the paper shredder above its mound of debris.

Andre said, ‘Walk.’

Vincent walked.

Pins and needles between his shoulder blades where he knew the gun was aimed. He was almost at the door, and he could see Page now, still behind his desk, face so pale he might have been bleeding out through his feet. Natasha Page was in a visitor’s chair opposite him, jaw clenched, hands clasped in her lap.

Page said, ‘What do you want?’

And Vincent stopped, three feet short of the door, feeling that to cross the threshold would only be a mistake, and he realised that from where he was he should be able to see Erin, and then from the corridor behind them she said, ‘Put the gun down.’

Silence for a long moment.

Then Vincent turned and saw Erin holding Andre by the collar, pressing a pistol to his neck with her other hand. Beyond her, he saw Delroy turn and walk back along the hallway toward the elevators.

Erin’s pistol was a Glock G43, a nine-mil Luger handgun that Glock marketed as ultra-concealable. Vincent had used one a few times, and he’d liked them well enough. Good for those urban surveillance deployments where you had to look like a civilian. He wondered where Erin had got hers. Maybe it belonged to Page. In any case, she should have fired it already. Probably she was worried about Andre squeezing off a round on his way to heaven, cutting Vincent in half: the shotgun was still pointed straight at his waist.

Erin said, ‘Are you deaf? I said put it down.’