She hoped he’d get along with her mother.
Nichole decided to start with the fingers. Maybe he was paralyzed for real; maybe he wouldn’t feel a thing. But she’d make him tell her what was going on. Whoops, David, there goes your ring finger. And most of the pinkie. Want to try for a thumb? After a while, he had to start caring.
And start telling her how to bring this floor out of lockdown.
“God, what are you doing?”
Jamie, the drone. Watching her hold the gun to David’s hand, placing the barrel at the spot where the index finger met palm.
Jamie, cradling his own hand protectively.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
“You want to get out of here, don’t you?” Nichole asked. “I need him to start giving me answers.”
She pulled the trigger.
Almost at the same time Jamie said, “No!”
David appreciated the concern from Jamie; he really did. But there was no need. He was more or less numb from the neck down.
As a result, his body was vaguely aware of the loss. A finger was nothing to take lightly. Especially his index finger—one of the more useful digits of the human hand. But it wasn’t as if David could move his hand anyway. He told his body this, and his body shrugged and said, Hey, it’s your body.
David gritted his teeth and pretended to be in some kind of pain. He even winced. Showmanship to the end.
What did the Moscow Rules say?
Use misdirection, illusion, deception.
“It’s your thumb next,” he heard her say.
Sure, that would be natural.
Maybe she planned on doing all ten fingers, which would be wonderful. The more time Nichole spent torturing him, the less time she had to make it off this floor. That was the only thing he cared about now; everybody staying on the floor until the explosives did their job.
“Two seconds to decide, David.”
His glanced at his hand, and saw Nichole had a gun pointed at the base of his thumb this time. She was bringing out the big hurt early. It was best to start with a small finger, because when you feel how bad it hurts to lose, say, a pinkie, the pain of losing a thumb or index finger seems unfathomable.
But hey, it was her show.
David was finished being her mentor.
Meanwhile, Jamie looked sick to his stomach.
“Jamie,” he said, “if there’s still champagne and orange juice on the table, I suggest you mix yourself a drink.”
David would rather see Jamie fall asleep than burn up alive. Or worse—try to leap from the windo—
BLAM!
Ah.
The thumb.
Thirty-five hundred miles away, McCoy finally figured out how to tap into the building’s security cameras. There was nothing of interest in the north fire tower. He found what he wanted in the south tower.
Girlfriend.
Dragging the corpse of Ethan Goins up one flight of concrete stairs after another, which had to be a real pain in the ass. But McCoy knew—and Girlfriend knew—that leaving his body in the fire tower wouldn’t work. It needed to be on the thirty-sixth floor. Burned up with the rest of the bodies. That was the operation.
He also knew Girlfriend must be bitterly disappointed—she’d had other plans for Mr. Goins.
She must be a little worried. Her audition, so far, was more than a little shaky.
And she had started out so strong.
The arrangement had been simple: Execute Murphy, then demonstrate her skills on those present. One by one, over the course of an hour or so. Nothing terribly fancy, but demonstrating her varied abilities, knowing she was being observed on the network of fiber-optic cameras covering the office.
If Girlfriend’s demonstration was impressive enough, she would receive the tools to escape the floor. Everything above thirty would burn. She would be extracted from the city, and given her reward: a promotion.
The pay hike wasn’t enough to retire to a life of coconuts and limes and backrubs on some tropical island, but it was enough to change your perspective on life. Many people coveted leadership positions within CI-6, even though the agency had no official name or structure. Faith in CI-6 leadership was much like the nation’s faith in the American dollar: powered by sheer will and absolutely nothing tangible like a congressional mandate. (Hah!) Still, the power and resources available to leadership were astounding.
For Girlfriend, ascending the ranks had more practical appeal. A promotion meant she could choose her location. In this case, Europe. She desperately longed to return to the continent. McCoy had enjoyed reading her screeds about the state of the American city, particularly Philadelphia, encoded in their communications over the past few months. They murder the young here, she once wrote. But most people care more about the sports teams.
It also meant she could afford to take her mother out of the assisted-living hellhole in Poland and put her somewhere to die with dignity. Maybe even prolong her life by a few months, or as much as a year.
Girlfriend wasn’t about the coconuts and backrubs.
Or was she?
That was the puzzling thing about the events of the morning. It had gotten off to a rocky start, with one of David’s younger reports … who was it … ah, Stuart McCrane, actually drinking the poisoned mimosa with little to no prompting. Stuart must have been a Boy Scout or an altar boy.
Then there was Ethan Goins, who had failed to report to the conference room on time.
In her defense, Girlfriend had tried to salvage the situation at the last minute:
Should I look for him?
No, no. We can start without him.
Are you …
I am.
Once Stuart was dead, it was too late to search for Ethan. The operation had begun.
This had radically altered Girlfriend’s operational plan. She’d been saving Stuart and Ethan for later. In fact, she’d ranked the direct reports, from hardest to kill to easiest:
Murphy
Felton
Goins
Wise
Kurtwood
McCrane
DeBroux
Murphy had been the real worry. Miss your opportunity with this guy and watch out. Girlfriend would have spent the rest of the morning running throughout the office, ducking and hiding, fighting for her life. And, most likely, would have lost.
McCoy should know.
So killing Murphy instantly was a necessity. Girlfriend had to lay the groundwork for weeks to pull off that kind of surprise. And she did.
Not only that, but she’d pulled off a daring move that strained credibility when it was first pitched:
I will shoot him and paralyze him. Not kill him.
And right before the end, I will interrogate him.
He will tell me everything.
The last part remained to be seen, but as far as McCoy could tell, Murphy was paralyzed, and not yet dead. Props to Girlfriend.
And at that moment, Girlfriend’s prospects seemed bright, despite the McCrane and Goins snafus.
Girlfriend immediately proceeded to Amy Felton, and carried out her neutralization as planned.
McCoy liked that one a lot.
Tip to employees everywhere: Never tell your boss you’re afraid of heights. Especially if he’s the kind of guy who’ll write it down on a performance review.
But then came the problem: Ethan was missing. He was supposed to be next. In fact, the whole thing with Amy Felton depended on Ethan being next.
Big bad Ethan was sweet on Amy.
Aw.
Ethan Hawkins Goins, former Special Forces, had carried out some of the grisliest and most creative executions of Afghan warlords in the early days of Operation Enduring Freedom. His skill under extreme duress had brought him to the attention of CI-6. A loner by nature, he happily joined, using Murphy, Knox as a cover between operations. Ethan was a fierce warrior. Physically, Girlfriend was no match for him.