The subterranean elevator tasted like old pennies and wet earth.
Jane counted the mechanical groans of the steel cables. Forty-two seconds. Floor minus five. The exact depth of a buried coffin.
Vance’s grip on her bicep was tight enough to leave deep, blooming bruises, but Jane was busy analyzing the rust pattern on the elevator doors. It looked like a Rorschach test of a crushed skull. She focused on the oxidized orange flakes peeling away from the metal. If she focused on the rust, she didn't have to focus on the suffocating weight of the iron cuffs slicing into her wrists.
"You're shaking, Sterling," Vance sneered, his breath hot against her ear.
She wasn't shaking from fear. The temperature plummeted the lower they went, the damp chill of the earth leaching through the thin silk of
