But Andre’s attention was on Vincent. ‘Don’t you move, man. One twitch, I’ll give you both barrels. I’m not getting taken in, that’s a promise. And if she shoots me, you go out at the same time. Let’s all just think about that for a moment.’

Vincent did think about it.

There wasn’t much he could do. If Erin had waited another second, given them a couple more feet, he’d be in Page’s office now, with room to move aside. But then he’d still have to trust she could pull the trigger, shoot a man in the neck at pointblank range. And the Glock’s reliability was unknown: if it had been left loaded for too long, the magazine spring could have jammed, and then he’d have a real crisis to deal with.

In any case, he was three feet short of the office, hemmed in by the hallway walls. He couldn’t move without Andre shooting him. He could call his bluff, maybe—step forward and just take the weapon off him—but the look in the man’s eyes was a strong deterrent. A bright and eager light that said every dark promise would be kept.

He heard the ding of an elevator.

Erin said, ‘Put it down.’

Andre licked his lips, smiled at her across his shoulder—a weird expression, jaw skin wadded up around the Glock muzzle. ‘You going to count me down from five? That’s how the pros do it.’ Then louder: ‘You holding that for me, Delroy?’

Delroy’s voice from the elevator: ‘Only if you’re fast.’

Andre still had the shotgun hip-high, lined up with Vincent’s stomach. ‘You’re not going to shoot me. You can’t do it.’ He breathed deeply through his nose, a smooth in-and-out, eyes locked with Vincent’s. ‘I can hear it in your voice you can’t do it.’

Vincent said, ‘Just shoot him.’

Andre said, ‘Nah, you can’t risk it. I’m too tight on the trigger. Shoot me, it’s like shooting him, too. Except he’ll be real messy. And it won’t solve your main problem, either.’

Erin said, ‘And what’s that?’

Andre grinned. ‘You owe thirty million dollars. Inherited debt.’ He licked his lips again, like he could taste the dilemma. ‘You gonna pay it off, or you gonna let it follow you around?’

‘Put it down.’

‘You could sell that boy of yours, I guess. Probably a five-million-dollar little kid, right there. Cover some of it, at least. Or maybe we’ll go debt collecting, pick him up.’

Vincent thought that might be enough to make her do it: he saw her finger tighten, saw Andre’s face turn slack and placid, as if waiting for the bullet.

Nothing.

Andre said, ‘All we wanted to do was come in, talk to our lawyer.’ Then louder: ‘How you doing in there, Terry? You doing okay?’