While the security officer looked on, Damien unholstered his SIG Sauer P226 from his shoulder holster and pulled the slide back, catching the round in the same hand. He pressed down on the decocking lever and ejected the magazine. He took a moment to thumb the ejected round back into the magazine. Satisfied, he handed over his weapon, followed by two more magazines.
The security officer motioned Damien through the metal detector. He was pleased his belt didn’t set it off — and neither did his titanium lockpicks and plasticuffs. Unfortunately neither of those were weapons.
Jensen passed through the metal detector behind him. Then they waited for Jay to begrudgingly hand over his pistol and magazines. Damien checked the people sitting on the nearby art deco chairs before continuing through the lobby. Their polished shoes echoed on marble as they walked along an intricate design of maidens and flowers.
Moving between two rows of pillars, he waited for someone to notice he’d snuck into the world of the privileged and escort him smartly out. The tuxedo he wore felt odd, but it was required attire for the event.
The lobby was lit by table lamps and decorated in dark wood and gold. He walked around a tall octagonal clock carved in bronze. A tiny golden Statue of Liberty sat atop the clock. At least I haven’t decapitated that version, he thought.
‘Level three,’ Jensen told him.
Damien already knew but Jensen liked to repeat himself.
He led Jensen through the silver corridor of the third floor — fringed with potted palms and candle-lit chandeliers, and a black-and-white tiled floor that reminded him of chess. They reached the doormen, who checked their IDs and swept them with handheld metal detectors. Damien and Jay came through clean and were permitted entry to the cocktail reception. Damien cleared a path for Jensen.
Soaring four levels high, the two-tiered grand ballroom teemed with nearly one thousand guests in gowns, suits and various states of sobriety. On his right he noticed red curtains drawn across an elevated stage. He slowed and checked over his shoulder for Jensen, who pinched a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and nodded to him.
‘You can back off a bit tonight, champ.’ Jensen placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder. ‘I have some business. Just, ah, do what you do best, huh?’ He pointed two fingers at Damien’s eyes as though he were privy to a secret sign language. ‘Keep an eye on things.’
‘If you need us—’
Jensen was already leading with his chest through the crowd until he reached a colleague. Damien watched for anyone else who might be paying Jensen some attention but no one gave notice. Their boss’s charisma was well oiled tonight.
‘If he calls you champ one more time,’ Jay said under his breath, ‘I’ll save them the trouble and shoot him myself.’
Damien turned to see Jay brush over a particular area of his chest — where his pistol should be. ‘Relax,’ he said.
‘Easy for you to say,’ Jay said. ‘Stop playing with your bow-tie.’
‘I wasn’t.’
Damien straightened his bow-tie again.
He could count on one hand how many times he’d worn a suit. Most of them were dress rehearsals in Project GATE. He wasn’t used to it and his neck felt tight. Jensen had rented them well-fitting tuxedos for the night. He’d assured them that, despite the firearms-free zone through the entire hotel, security would be excellent, and they were merely here to protect him in transit. Still, Damien was being paid and he wasn’t about to take any chances. He’d ensured Jensen wore a covert ballistic protection vest under his shirt, just to be sure. It would at least stop pistol rounds.
He turned to Jay in time to see him pluck a salmon wafer from a passing waitress. She was dressed like some sort of light infantry soldier circa Roman Empire. She glared at Jay and Damien as she wafted past. Her eyes were impossibly white against gold-dusted skin. She wore a black helmet and golden armor that covered her chest and shoulders. There was even a bow slung across her back. Unusual weaponry for a Roman soldier, but they were known to have assumed the tactics of those they defeated, archers included.
The curtains on stage parted and music trickled softly through the ballroom. Damien looked above, dizzied by a gargantuan chandelier shimmering high overhead.
‘For the record, this is a terrible idea,’ Jay said.
Damien shrugged. ‘At least we can make it through one job without you shooting our client.’
‘Hey that happened once—’ Jay reached for another passing salmon wafer ‘—OK twice. And they were both dicks,’ he said. ‘Big dicks.’
Damien realized the music stopped and the surrounding guests heard Jay say ‘big dicks’ quite clearly. Damien intercepted a tray of champagne and took two flutes.
‘This could be a long night,’ Damien said, drinking an entire flute.
Jay reached for the other flute but Damien was already drinking it. Jay grumbled and ran his hand across his empty holster again.
‘Last I heard it’s a mandatory evacuation tonight.’ Jay checked his watch. ‘This shindig should be winding up early.’
Damien took comfort in that, but he didn’t admit it.
The music returned, and this time the stage curtains parted to reveal two rows of performers. They each rested on one knee, dark helmets lowered. The drums built with intensity and they unfurled to full height, weapons across their backs.
‘Why couldn’t we carry a sword instead?’ Jay whispered.
‘They’re blunt swords, Jay,’ Damien said. ‘They’re just props.’
‘You mean the swords or us?’ Jay said, his eyes searching for another tray of food.
The performers began to dance, intertwining as pairs and breaking off again. Damien found himself enjoying it. Their movements were slow and mesmerizing. He reached for another flute and realized he’d already broken his rule of no alcohol on a job — although it was a rule he’d set more for Jay than himself.
Sophia stood silently with Aviary before the altar. She spent most of the time — how much time? — trying to keep herself together. It seemed a while before the tidal wave inside her finally settled.
Aviary reached down to take Calvin’s photo. ‘We can’t keep these,’ she said. ‘We need to let them go.’
Sophia breathed slowly, deeply, and retrieved her own photos and the business card. She couldn’t think clearly enough and was grateful Aviary led her beyond the altars to a cluster of small fires in Central Park. People were drawn to them. They stayed for a time, mesmerized, and then left. Sophia realized why when Aviary held Calvin’s photo tightly between pressed thumbs. The flame revealed dried tears on Aviary’s face.
‘Calvin Keli’i,’ Aviary said, placing the photo in the fire.
Sophia watched the flame pour over his face and consume the photograph. Aviary stepped back and Sophia felt herself hesitating. She looked down at the photos in her hand and realized she didn’t want to let them go. She wanted to hold onto them forever. She wasn’t stupid — she knew she couldn’t bring her people back, but she couldn’t … She couldn’t even think right now. She stepped closer to the flame. She placed a photo onto it.
‘Benito Montoya,’ she said.
The flame consumed him. He was gone.
‘Owen Freeman,’ she said.
Her eyes were filling with tears again. She swallowed, stayed focused.
The flame consumed him.
‘Leoncjusz Adamicz,’ she said.
In an instant, Leon dissolved. They were gone now.
She held the card with her family’s names, stared at it for a moment. Everything came crashing forth inside her. She held it all back just long enough to throw the card into the fire.
‘Lenka Novotný,’ she said. ‘Antonín Novotný.’ Tears poured down her face but she didn’t care anymore. ‘Tereza Novotný. Petr Novotný.’