Page 126 of Fury In Death

He’d managed to get his hands on one weeks before with the intent of cloning it. But the instant he began the process, it deactivated. Since it may have programmed a homer, he had to destroy it.

Very tight, very admirable security.

But there were ways, because he’d studied the building, and its infrastructure. He went into the men’s room, pleased to find it empty. He’d have waited otherwise.

With one jump, one fist, he dislodged the ceiling vent. With another jump, he was up and in.

Fleetingly he thought that when he’d been only Steve Redman, he’d have celebrated a standing jump like that on the basketball court in a pickup game.

Now he simply replaced the vent and began to crawl. He had the map in his mind, and followed it, silent as a shadow, until he reached a staff lounge.

Not empty.

He could have cleared the room, disabled the three people in it in a matter of seconds. Just seconds, really. But they were outside the equation. They were the innocent.

So he waited, listening to the chatter, the laughter, breathing in the scents of coffee—good coffee—of sugary drinks.

He thought of Ari’s love of cherry fizzies, and the sorrow weighed heavy.

And he waited with his sorrow until the room cleared.

He leaped down, put on his gloves, slipped out.

They’d have him on camera, he knew. Coming into the building, walking to the elevators now. They’d run facial recognition, but he suspected the police lieutenant already knew who he’d been.

He’d studied her, too.

It didn’t matter. He would bring Wyst to justice, then go directly to enact justice on Banner.

And he would leave New York, go to O’Brian, bring him to justice.

Then he would be done. Had to be, because his time was running out.

He felt it ticking away, faster, faster, as he used the strength he’d given himself to pry the elevator doors apart.

Enough, just enough to slip through. He couldn’t make the elevator run, but he didn’t need to.

He opened the maintenance grid, leaped up and in.

From there he traveled, on ledges, hand-over-hand by cables, always following the map in his head. He climbed up, and up, fifty-three floors up.

Now he had only to leap on the roof of the elevator at the end of his map.

It hadn’t taken long, not in the scheme of things. He imagined Wyst sitting in his office, having a scotch—well aged, unblended—while he finished weaving his web of plans.

There would be a droid, there would be security, and he’d need their locations.

After deactivating the elevator cam, he dropped down into the elevator, the suite’s private elevator. Though his hearing was acute—another benefit of his serum—he couldn’t see through walls or doors.

He took out his heat scanner. Only one, he saw. Only Wyst, and yes, in his office. Security outside then, and that was best. He had no desire to harm them.

He used Wyst’s code to shut down the house droid.

Then he pried the elevator open into the living area with its floor-to-ceiling windows, its muted gray walls and elegant furnishings.

He noticed a space where a painting must have hung. Obviously valuable enough Wyst wanted to take it with him.

There would be a safe somewhere, of course, and that would be cleaned out.