The dead bolts clanked open, one after another, and the hinges gave a soft complaint as the mahogany door swung inward. Evan rolled over, feigning sleep, his eyelids cracked enough to register Dex’s massive shape entering the room.

His cinder-block fist raised the transmitter to aim at Evan, and Evan reacted appropriately, jolting awake, shuddering on the sheets, clawing at his shock collar. It was, he thought, a convincing performance.

He’d had plenty of practice.

Dex led him into the hall where Xalbador waited, less-lethal shotgun in hand.

Not a word was exchanged as Evan headed to the stairs and wound his way down.

Dead man walking.

When they reached the ground floor, Evan caught a whiff of espresso in the air, the distant murmur of chatter. The library was empty, but a few early risers had gathered in the sunroom—the guests being catered to, pampered like Sotheby’s VIPs at a pre-auction reception. The Great White Sark held forth by the banquette, swapping war stories with the others. The Widow Lakshminarayanan sipped tea in a corner, sitting ramrod straight. Conversation ceased as Evan passed by, all those sets of eyes lifting to trace his path across the doorway.

Candy McClure and Orphan M were conspicuously absent. Even if Van Sciver chose to deploy Orphans in pairs these days, they were built to operate alone. Old habits were hard to break. It was tough to imagine them chewing biscotti with war criminals and drug lords.

Evan kept on. He sensed Xalbador’s shotgun trained at the space between his shoulder blades. Dex kept several paces ahead of him, walking sideways to hold him in view, the pistol dwarfed by his hand. Their three-man procession was coming up on the ballroom now. Evan felt his skin tingle as it did before a mission kicked off. Not fear, no, nor even the stress of anticipation, but an overwhelming sense of his own aliveness. He hated to admit how much he loved this, especially given the horrors he would face if he failed.

His vision sharpened until he could make out the knuckle grooves on Dex’s trigger finger. He sensed the cadence of Xalbador’s footsteps, the vibrations through the marble floor. Reading the rhythm of the men’s movements, he predicted and gauged and prepared.

The makeshift garrote stuffed in his sock pressed coolly into his flesh.

They turned the corner, their boots tapping the hardwood. The rows of empty chairs were set out neatly, as if in anticipation of a wedding service. The Lexan vault waited. They crossed the freshly polished spot on the floor where David had bled out.

Ten more steps.

Evan used the chirp of Xalbador’s boots against the floor to measure the man’s distance behind him. He slipped a hand into his pocket, digging for his bootlaces, curling his fingers around one side of the improvised noose.

Six more steps.