-40 DEGREES

PROLOGUE

When the soft, hydraulic hiss of the private elevator sounded, Ben Cohen, the paper's fifty-eight-year-old editor-in-chief, did not hear it. He was too busy staring at the layout screen on his desk, blowing a cloud of gray cigarette smoke at the glass. For the first time in a decade, the headache behind his eyes wasn't from stress.

It was from victory.

On his screen was the layout for tomorrow's front page. The headline was a declaration of war.

PROJECT ICE AGE: THE GRANT OMNICORP CONSPIRACY EXPOSED.

He exhaled, his breath fogging slightly in the chill of the room.

We got him, he thought. We actually got the bastard.

He checked his watch. 11:42 P.M.

Maya Lin had left his office two hours ago, clutching the encrypted hard drive like it was a holy relic. She was terrified, but Ben had seen the fire in her eyes. He had pushed her hard. Maybe too hard, but tonight she had delivered. She was currently en route to Seattle to cover the news and deliver the final blow to Grant Omnicorp.

"You did good, kid," Ben whispered to the empty room.

He reached for the bottle of scotch in his drawer to pour a celebration shot, but his hand froze when the private elevator chimed behind him.

"What the..."

He spun around, his chair squeaking in the quiet room. He wasn't expecting anyone. The cleaning crew didn't have clearance for the penthouse.

The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss and three men stepped out, dressed in full-spectrum winter tactical gear. It was white, bulky and pristine. Their faces were hidden behind thermal-masking helmets and smooth black visors that reflected the office lights.

"Jesus Christ..." He sputtered, the blood pounding inside his skull now as his stomach turned to ice. He knew exactly what he was looking at.

Six months ago, he had run a deep-dive piece on "Vector Zero" which was a rumoured hit squad employed by Grant Omnicorp to clean up corporate messes. The company's lawyers had threatened to sue him into bankruptcy. They swore under oath that this unit did not exist.

Yet here they were, standing in front of him with firearms.

The lead soldier stepped forward. "Where is she?" The voice was modulated, stripped of any human cadence.

Ben stood up, trying to summon the authority that usually made interns weep. "Get the hell out of my office. I'm calling the police."

"Maya Lin," the soldier didn't sound a bit bothered by his weak, little threat. "Give us her location."

His heart was already hammering against his ribs. He tried to lock his knees to stop them from shaking.

"I... don't know," he stammered. His voice cracked, high and thin. "I fired her. Two hours ago. She was... she was unstable. Chasing shadows. I kicked her out."

The lie was so pathetic that he sounded guilty even to his own ears.

The leader didn't speak. He simply tilted his helmet.

The soldier on the left surged forward, closing the distance with terrifying efficiency. And before Ben could raise his hands, the man grabbed Ben's right index finger and twisted it backward with a wet, sickening pop.

"Aaargh!" He fell to his knees, clutching his hand and gasping for air as white-hot pain flooded his nervous system.

"Her location," the leader repeated. "Now."

"Go to hell," Ben wheezed, spitting blood onto the floor.

The leader turned to the technician among them, seemingly indifferent and commanded. "Check the terminal."

A few minutes later, the technician announced. "Sir, I bypassed the encryption on his desktop. I found a purchase order from two hours ago. It's a single, one-way ticket to Seattle."

Ben's blood ran cold. The travel expense account. He'd booked the train ticket for her on the company card.

"Good," the leader said, looking down at Ben, who was curled on the floor, cradling his broken hand. "We are done here."

"You can't cover this up," Ben rasped, looking up at the black visor. "People will know."

The leader nodded to his men. The two subordinates grabbed Ben by the arm and hauled him upright, dragging him towards the floor-to-ceiling window which had frost spiderwebbed its reinforced panes, blurring the city lights outside into jagged streaks of red and green christmas lights.

Ben realized what was happening a second too late. "No! Wait-! Please!"

The leader raised a heavy tactical sidearm and fired two rounds into the reinforced glass. The safety laminate shattered and a blast of sub-zero winter wind roared into the office, chilling Ben to the bone.

Then they pushed him.

A few seconds later, he struck the pavement directly beneath a streetlamp wrapped in red tinsel, bones broken and twisting out in unnatural angles, and his skull split open with blood and brain matter oozing out.

In the holiday traffic, a child screamed.