Page 23 of Into the Fire

Evan slipped the key off the chain connecting it to the Swiss Army knife and thumbed it into place.

A perfect fit.

“Wait—what?” Max said. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he give me a fake key?”

Evan said, “He wasn’t giving you a key. He was giving you a key chain.”

With the edge of his nail, he pried open the attachments from the red casing. The key chain was diminutive, the attachments few. Penknife, scissors, file.

Max crouched opposite him, their eyes level. Evan pressed the edge of the penknife into the pad of his index finger. It didn’t cut.

A dummy blade.

He pinched it between thumb and forefinger. Sure enough, it slid off its casing, revealing the metal head of a USB plug concealed beneath.

A thumb drive.

Max blew out a breath. “Grant was clever. I’ll give him that.”

Etched into the metal stub of the USB connector, visible only if tilted to the light, was a logo formed of the union of two letters, the right slant of the M forming the first rise of the A. A nifty little piece of branding for Merriweather Accountancy.

Over Max’s shoulder Evan registered movement on the wall monitor. A slender man emerging from the stairwell, turning his shoulders to slip through the barely cracked door. A black wool balaclava covered his face, save for two almond-shaped eyeholes. He looked too skinny to be the Terror, at least based on Max’s description, but the exposed forearms were also ridged with carefully inflicted scar patterns.

His hands turned ghostly white by latex gloves.

One held a pistol, the barrel stretched wickedly long by a suppressor.

11

Much More Force, Very Specifically Directed

Evan hustled Max out of Grant’s office and into the lobby, careful not to slip on the scattered files.

Already he was running scenarios. Grant’s killers had hacked the new security feed to monitor the office. When the bullet camera had mysteriously swiveled, they’d sent a man to investigate.

A man with a suppressed pistol.

Evan and Max neared the front door, and Max balked, jerking back.

“Wait a sec,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Shouldn’t we hide? Or run the other way?” His jaw was clenched, veins standing out in his neck. “Do you even have a gun?”

“We don’t want him dead,” Evan said.

“I don’t want anyone dead,” Max whispered. “Especially me.”

Evan grabbed his collar and shoved him through the door, staying at his back.

Up the length of the hall, the masked man stood beneath the swiveled bullet camera, staring directly up. Under the hem of black wool, his Adam’s apple floated between the flexed pillars of his neck muscles.

The almond-shaped eye cutouts snapped down at Evan and Max, standing in full view before the door.

The man’s shoulder tensed, the pistol starting to rise.

Evan propelled Max up the intersecting corridor toward the elevator doors.

A muffled pop sounded behind them, and a puff of plaster dust lifted from the wall.

Evan shoved Max toward the elevator. “Push the DOWN button. Go.”