ear and a hit of sugar, enriched flour, and partially hydrogenated vegetable oil.
But there was no time to find Ethan now. Because Molly didn’t want any water, or to sit down.
“We need,” Amy said, “to find a way to call in support.”
Support: the euphemism for David’s bosses. As David’s second-in-command, Amy had been given the phone number and code key to use in case of emergency, such as David’s untimely death. Backup would descend upon 1919 Market Street. Hard drives would be secured. Order would be restored. Only if Amy could find a working phone.
But Molly didn’t seem to be listening. She lowered her face into her hands.
God, this couldn’t be easy for her. She wasn’t a high-level operative. She knew what they all did, to some degree. But Molly didn’t know how dangerous this game could be.
Amy put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re going to be okay,” Amy said, even though it was a blatant lie. The woman had pulled a gun out of a white box—it may even have been a cannoli box from Reading Terminal Market—and shot her boss of six months in the head. That was decidedly
not okay.
Molly surfaced from her palms. “Amy?”
“Yeah, sweetie.”
“I’m going to enjoy you the most.”
Amy watched one of Molly’s delicate hands shrink into a tight little fist. Then it smashed her in the eye.
She staggered back. Confusion set in before the pain.
Wait. What had just happened
?
Did Molly Lewis just punch her in the—?
Again.
And again.
Left hook, right jab. Classic boxer combo.
Amy’s head buzzed with pain, now, finally, radiating from her skin deep into her skull. Her butt bumped up against the front of her own desk. She needed to keep standing. She needed to start defending herself. That much was sure. But what was going on here? Amy lifted a hand, but Molly slapped it aside and then jabbed her in the throat.
Amy started choking.
She slid to the side and put her hands to her throat, as if she could undo the damage manually. But Molly had done something. Something very bad. Amy couldn’t even scream.
Two minutes before, Molly had been alone in David’s office. Everyone had scattered to the rest of the office, to see if their boss’s crazy talk was actually true. To see if the elevators would come. If the dial tone would be there. If their cell phones would work.
Of course they wouldn’t.
Molly had helped David disable them all.
David, a week ago, promised, “You help me; you and I walk out of here. We’ve got new identities waiting for us.”
Later, Molly had found the memo. The faxed hit list.
With her name on it.
Liar.
So she decided to cut a deal of her own.
Molly walked down the hallway and into David’s office. In the corner, where the south-facing windows met with a solid oak bookcase, was a security camera obscured by the wood and dry-wall. It had been positioned so that it could scan not only the entire office, but the face of David’s computer screen. David knew this. It was company policy.
Molly looked up at the security camera and flashed it a tight little smile. She held up her left hand, palm out.
And raised her index and middle fingers.
It wasn’t a peace sign.
It was an announcement.
THE MORNING GRIND
Management is nothing more than motivating other people.
—LEE IACOCCA
Thirty-five hundred miles away …
… in Scotland, near the sea, in a quiet section of Edinburgh called Portobello, a red-haired man in a black T-shirt and neatly pressed khakis crossed the street. He was holding a pharmacy bag stocked with tissues and Night Nurse. He’d felt awful all morning. Maybe a solid dose of medicine would head it off at the pass. Summer colds were the worst.
This summer, too, was the worst. Freakishly warm for Edinburgh. Plus, there was a hot, greasy drizzle in the air, which did little to cool it. By the time he returned to the flat, he reckoned, his T-shirt would be soaked with sea mist and sweat, and he’d have to change. He kept
But there was no time to find Ethan now. Because Molly didn’t want any water, or to sit down.
“We need,” Amy said, “to find a way to call in support.”
Support: the euphemism for David’s bosses. As David’s second-in-command, Amy had been given the phone number and code key to use in case of emergency, such as David’s untimely death. Backup would descend upon 1919 Market Street. Hard drives would be secured. Order would be restored. Only if Amy could find a working phone.
But Molly didn’t seem to be listening. She lowered her face into her hands.
God, this couldn’t be easy for her. She wasn’t a high-level operative. She knew what they all did, to some degree. But Molly didn’t know how dangerous this game could be.
Amy put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re going to be okay,” Amy said, even though it was a blatant lie. The woman had pulled a gun out of a white box—it may even have been a cannoli box from Reading Terminal Market—and shot her boss of six months in the head. That was decidedly
not okay.
Molly surfaced from her palms. “Amy?”
“Yeah, sweetie.”
“I’m going to enjoy you the most.”
Amy watched one of Molly’s delicate hands shrink into a tight little fist. Then it smashed her in the eye.
She staggered back. Confusion set in before the pain.
Wait. What had just happened
?
Did Molly Lewis just punch her in the—?
Again.
And again.
Left hook, right jab. Classic boxer combo.
Amy’s head buzzed with pain, now, finally, radiating from her skin deep into her skull. Her butt bumped up against the front of her own desk. She needed to keep standing. She needed to start defending herself. That much was sure. But what was going on here? Amy lifted a hand, but Molly slapped it aside and then jabbed her in the throat.
Amy started choking.
She slid to the side and put her hands to her throat, as if she could undo the damage manually. But Molly had done something. Something very bad. Amy couldn’t even scream.
Two minutes before, Molly had been alone in David’s office. Everyone had scattered to the rest of the office, to see if their boss’s crazy talk was actually true. To see if the elevators would come. If the dial tone would be there. If their cell phones would work.
Of course they wouldn’t.
Molly had helped David disable them all.
David, a week ago, promised, “You help me; you and I walk out of here. We’ve got new identities waiting for us.”
Later, Molly had found the memo. The faxed hit list.
With her name on it.
Liar.
So she decided to cut a deal of her own.
Molly walked down the hallway and into David’s office. In the corner, where the south-facing windows met with a solid oak bookcase, was a security camera obscured by the wood and dry-wall. It had been positioned so that it could scan not only the entire office, but the face of David’s computer screen. David knew this. It was company policy.
Molly looked up at the security camera and flashed it a tight little smile. She held up her left hand, palm out.
And raised her index and middle fingers.
It wasn’t a peace sign.
It was an announcement.
THE MORNING GRIND
Management is nothing more than motivating other people.
—LEE IACOCCA
Thirty-five hundred miles away …
… in Scotland, near the sea, in a quiet section of Edinburgh called Portobello, a red-haired man in a black T-shirt and neatly pressed khakis crossed the street. He was holding a pharmacy bag stocked with tissues and Night Nurse. He’d felt awful all morning. Maybe a solid dose of medicine would head it off at the pass. Summer colds were the worst.
This summer, too, was the worst. Freakishly warm for Edinburgh. Plus, there was a hot, greasy drizzle in the air, which did little to cool it. By the time he returned to the flat, he reckoned, his T-shirt would be soaked with sea mist and sweat, and he’d have to change. He kept
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