June was still talking. “He and I, we’ve got some unfinished business, of a personal nature. He’s a hard man to catch on his ass. But see, I hear that he’s looking for you.”

Marcella wasn’t surprised. After all, she had cut down his numbers.

“You want me to kill Antony Hutch?”

June’s expression darkened. “No. I just want you to get me close enough to say hello. And then, as far as I’m concerned, we’re square.

What do you say?”

“I could do that,” said Marcella, tapping the gun against her leg.

“Or I could just kill you.”

“You could,” countered June with a wry smile, “but it wouldn’t be me you were killing.”

Marcella’s brow furrowed. “How’s that?”

“Hard to explain,” said June. “Easier to show you. This little dress-up game of mine, it’s nothing. But you get me in a room with Tony Hutch, and you’ll see what I can really do.”

Marcella was intrigued. “Deal.”

“Lovely,” said June with a sudden, dazzling smile. She crossed to the window. “In the meantime, we should probably get out of here. Only a matter of time before they send more.”

“I suppose you’re right . . .” Marcella considered the bodies on her floor. “But it would be rude to go without leaving a note.”

* * *

“FUCKING hell,” muttered Stell.

He’d already passed a scene in the lobby, where the concierge—an older man named Richard Ainsley—lay slumped forward in his chair, his throat slit.

The scene on the fourteenth floor told its own story.

Ash streaked across the hall runner, and a fine mist of blood spattered the floor and wall. Stell freed a dart from a neighbor’s door.

All the signs of a fight, but no bodies.

“Sir,” called Holtz. “You should see this.”

Stell stepped around the dark stains and through the open door into Marcella’s apartment.

Two techs were securing the scene, bagging and recording everything they could, but as they stepped out of the way, Stell saw why Holtz had called him in.

If you don’t kill her now, you’ll wish you had.

Marcella Riggins hadn’t tried to hide her work. On the contrary, she’d put it on display. The three agents’ bodies—what was left of them

—lay on the floor, their limbs arranged in a disturbing tableau.

A macabre version of see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

The first soldier, missing a part of his skull, had his hands against his ears. The second, with a broken neck, had his own armored gloves over his eyes. And the third, little more than brittle bones inside a tactical suit, had no head at all.

Sitting like a centerpiece on the glass coffee table was a single ruined helmet.

How long do you think it will take her to penetrate whatever armor your men are wearing?