Vincent glanced back and saw Page still bloodless and terrified behind the desk.

Andre said, ‘We just need to make sure Terry knows about attorney–client privilege. Whatever we’ve talked about with him, that’s private. He can’t tell anyone about it. Lawyers start disclosing business, there’s harsh penalties. So I hope he hasn’t told you anything.’

Erin said, ‘Put it down. I won’t say it again.’

She sounded calm, but she’d stretched it out too long, and Andre knew it.

He said, ‘It’s okay. Normal people can’t do it.’ Almost soothing. ‘I won’t hurt anyone if you let me leave. So you’re hostage to that, aren’t you? You’re not going to shoot a man who’s just trying to walk away. Couldn’t live with yourself.’

His head was on an angle from the pressure of the Glock. He grinned and said, ‘Whereas some people think that’s bullshit. You just gotta pull the trigger. Because it’s the ones you don’t shoot you got to worry about. Maybe they’ll come back and see you again, worse than any kind of bad dream. But you still can’t do it, can you? Here, look.’

And he started to walk backward, slowly, taking Erin with him.

Andre said, ‘You can come too if you like, I don’t care.’

She let him go but kept the Glock aimed at his head. She leaned in a doorway for cover, and Andre kept moving backward, faster now, the shotgun still raised, lined up on Vincent.

Andre said, ‘Why don’t you pass it to someone else, see if they can nail me? Careful, though. Imagine if you dropped it.’

Vincent heard Natasha Page say, ‘For God’s sake, Terry, just breathe …’

Erin still had the gun up, aimed at Gutierrez as he backed into the reception area and then sidestepped out of view.

Vincent moved forward and hissed, ‘Gun!’ beckoning for it, but Erin was already off: Glock raised two-handed and running stooped, eye to the sights. Vincent hissed again at her to wait, but he knew she wouldn’t stop unless he put her in a chokehold. He heard the crunch of feet on broken glass, and they reached the reception area as the doors on the central elevator sealed shut.

Vincent sprinted the remaining distance and hit DOWN, and with obscene leisure the floor numbers ticked over slowly—nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen—and then finally the ding of arrival.

By some miracle they made no pick-ups on the way down. The doors opened on one, and he and Erin stepped out into a normal ground-floor scene: the same guy at the security desk, a couple of people coming in through the turnstiles.

No Delroy, no Andre.

The guard at the desk said, ‘You folks okay?’

Erin said, ‘Did you see two guys just exit?’