The flickering fluorescent tube above them buzzed in a sharp, irritating E-flat.
Jane noticed that before she noticed the twenty assault rifles pointed at her chest. It was a stupid, useless detail, but that was the problem with extreme trauma—her brain always latched onto the mundane to keep the panic from drowning her.
She stepped barefoot onto the freezing sub-basement concrete. The cold bit into her soles, slick with the chief of security’s blood.
Behind her, in the dimly lit elevator car, Michael’s breathing was a wet, ragged rattle. He was bleeding out from a silver-laced wound. He couldn't stand. He couldn't fight.
"I said come here, Jane," Ryan repeated. His voice echoed off the damp walls. He was wearing a slate-gray bespoke suit that cost more than a car, trying desperately t
