“If he breaks your arm,” Somers began.

“For fuck’s sake, John, I’ll figure out how to wipe my own ass.”

The man threw open the door as Hazard was delivering this piece of reassurance, and it caught him off guard. He hesitated, obviously not having expected something like that, and Hazard kicked him in the shin. The man howled, hopping on one foot, and Hazard wrenched the baseball bat from his hands. Then he gestured for Somers to precede him into the building.

“Very gentlemanly,” Somers said as he stepped past the injured man, who was clutching one Ruxpin-covered leg to his chest in a remarkable display of agility for his age.

Hazard grunted and followed; they left their new friend hobbling in circles outside the building.

“Old fashioned,” Somers said as he pressed the up button.

Hazard was silent.

They were passing the fourth floor when Somers tried again: “Courtly.”

Hazard was pale and trembling; his hand loosened, and the bat rolled free, clanging against the metal panel of the elevator.

When the elevator dinged at the eighth floor, Somers said, “I think you should stay here.”

“No,” he said. “It’ll be worse.”

“Maybe no gun,” Somers said. “And I want you to stay in the hall.”

Nodding, Hazard bent and picked up the bat. Somers led the way out of the elevator, drawing the Glock and keeping it low as they approached Mitchell’s door. Somers counted his steps; the only noises in the world were the hammering of his pulse and the brush-rasp-brush of his sneakers against the carpet.

The door to Mitchell’s apartment was open an inch.

“Call it in,” Somers said over his shoulder.

“No, I—”

“Absolutely not. Call it in, Emery. Right now.”

Somers had just long enough to register the shock on Hazard’s face, and then he kicked open the door and launched himself into the apartment. Part of his brain had already gone quiet, instinct and training taking over, the flood of adrenaline making higher-order thinking difficult. He cleared the corners. His movements were fluid, sure, the Glock drifting like an extension of his body. He charged down the hall, a sprint that felt effortless as every muscle in his body burned a high-octane fuel. He cleared the rooms one by one.

Inside Mitchell’s apartment, every light was burning. Every room was empty.

“Clear,” Somers shouted, and then he moved back toward the front of the apartment, his breathing suddenly heavy and difficult, and he had to try twice to holster the Glock before he got it right.

At the apartment’s front door, Hazard was shouting into his phone, “—because he’s in there, alone, risking his fucking life while the rest of you sit around with your thumbs up your asses, so get the fuck over here right now and—John?”

“It’s clear. It’s ok. Mitchell’s gone.”

Hazard shook his head once, the long, dark hair flying, and then he disconnected the call. He was still shoving the phone in his pocket when he grabbed Somers, dragging him into a hug, crushing Somers against him.