Page 271 of Sexting His Assistant

I sit in the back, gun in my hand, and for once I don’t care who sees it.

“Drive,” I say.

Sergei drives.

The car launches forward hard enough that my injured shoulder pulls against the seatbelt. Pain flashes white at the edge of my vision. I ignore it.

Pavel speaks into his mic. “All units converge on east river road. No sirens. Block exits before entry. Watch rooftops, loading bays, basement ramps.”

I stare out the window as the city breaks apart around us.

Glass buildings turn into old apartments.

Old apartments turn into shuttered shops. Shops turn into industrial blocks with rusted gates, broken walls, dead signs, narrow roads slick with old rain.

My phone stays silent. I call again. Nothing.

Sergei looks at me in the rearview mirror once, then looks back at the road and drives faster.

Pavel says, “We have another ping.”

“From Nina?”

“No. Meredith’s main phone. It just connected three hundred meters from the warehouse block.”

“Moving?”

“Stationary.”

We turn off the main road into a narrow lane lined with warehouses that look abandoned but aren’t. Too many fresh tire tracks. Too many cameras pointed in places abandoned buildings don’t need cameras. Too much quiet.

Pavel says, “Building seventeen ahead.”

Sergei cuts the lights before we turn.

The warehouse appears at the end of the lane, old brick and corrugated metal, windows blacked out, one side door hanging slightly open. A loading dock stretches along the far side. There is a van parked near it with no plates.

Sergei stops before I tell him.

“Two men at the side entrance,” Pavel says, looking at a feed on his screen. “One on the roofline. One by the van.”

“Only four?” I ask.

“That we see.”

“Then assume twelve.”

I open the door.

Pavel catches my arm. “Wait.”

I look down at his hand.

He lets go.

“We need to clear entry properly,” he says.

I step out. “Quickly.”