Page 99 of The Phantom's Vice

“Are you ready?” Kain asks. I jerk my gaze toward his half-masked face, twirling my dagger nimbly between my gloved fingers as I take in the tension etched across his brow.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Kain rolls his eyes as he reaches a hand to his waist, drawing his weapon. “How many by the door?”

“Two Reapers and a Disposer,” I murmur, inching my head around the dumpster we’re currently crouched behind. “Make thatthreeReapers—but the last one is shit-faced, it seems.”

“That fancy little mask tell you that?” Kain askes, his eye squinting dubiously.

“He’s stumbling around like a drunken ox. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s shit-faced.”

“Ladies,” Maverick grumbles, closing his hand in a “shush” motion. This earns him a murderous glare from Kain—which he ignores. “Can we please stop the bickering? I’d like to at least make it a foot inside the building before we’re discovered.”

“Tell that tohim.” I jerk my head at Kain. “He’s deliberately questioned me at every tur?—”

“Quiet!”Maverick whispers, ducking behind thecover of the dumpster as one of the sober Reapers jerks his head toward us. “We’ve been fucking spotted.”

“Ofcoursewe have,” I groan. “I hope you realize this isyourfault, Mr. Hellfyre,” I scoff, reaching for my gun at the same time Kain presses the tip of his to my forehead.

“You wanna try that again?” Kain snarls, his one eye darkening murderously.

“Oh my God,” I groan, rolling my eyes to the star-less sky. “If I knew you were going to be such a pissant, I would have done this by myself.”

“What the?—”

The three of us whip our heads at the unfamiliar voice, coming face-to-face with one of the white-masked Reapers.

“Who the fuck are you guy?—”

There’s a loudbang,and a perfect black circle appears in the center of the mask, right where his forehead would be. The Reaper teeters on his feet, and a moment later, his body collapses to the pavement, limbs splayed like a broken rag doll.

“Fuck!” Kain snaps, turning his glare onto me once more. “That one wasmine.”

“My bullet lodged in his gray matter says otherwise,” I taunt, waving the hot-tipped pistol in theair to prove his point. “Not my fault you’re a slow shot.”

“Would you two shut the fuck up?” Maverick groans, holding his head in his palms as I lean past the edge of the dumpster to line up my shot. The other three Masks haven’t so much as looked this way, leading me to believeallof them are inebriated. It would make sense, considering the first Reaper’s reaction to discovering a couple of strange men holed out near the Sanctum’s secret entrance.

Holding my breath, I steady my hand, clearing my mind of any thoughts and forcing my pulse to steady.One one thousand…. Two one thousand…. Three one thousand.

Bang! BangBang!

The last three men slump to the ground in a heap, severalcracksringing out as their metallic masks smack against the asphalt.

A satisfied smile makes its way over my face as I turn back to Kain and Maverick, currently shaking their heads in disbelief. “What? Someone had to do something.”

Kain just rolls his eye while Maverick laughs, holding a hand to his thin, suit-laden chest. “And here I was, thinking we were trying to be quiet.”

“A little too late for that,” I grumble, my smilefalling as I jerk my head toward the first fallen Reaper. “Plus, it’s fucking Moriton. You really think a few shots are going to cause alarm?”

Kain grumbles under his breath as he stands, following close behind me and Maverick as we race toward the entrance.

Kain and Maverick wait a few paces away while I break open the door, their heads moving on a swivel as they watch the alley, listening for the sound of booted footsteps coming to kill us all.

“Got it,” I announce, waving a hand at them to follow me down the tunnel-like hallway. My boots are silent against the plush gold carpet as I glide down the main stretch, my chest tightening as the golden walls appear to close in on me from all angles, threatening to bury me alive in their luxurious, molten hue. Warm light emanates from embossed sconces lining the walls, leading our way like a trail of expensive breadcrumbs. When I think about where the trail ends, my chest constricts further, squeezing all the air from my lungs.

At the very end of the hallway is an old wooden door, the handle made of tarnished brass—and, therefore, the only thing in this place not glimmering in shades of gold.

The service shaft.

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