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I need to get out of here. Now.
My hands are surprisingly steady as I save the video to three different cloud accounts and start shoving critical files into my briefcase. Borsellini financial records, witness statements, surveillance transcripts, everything that could disappear if something happens to me. The case has to survive even if I don’t.
An elevator dings again, much closer this time. My floor.
Cold spreads through my veins. I kill the office lights and move further from the door, pressing myself against the wall beside my desk. Maybe it’s security making rounds. Maybe it’s another prosecutor working late. Maybe it’s nothing.
Footsteps in the hallway, moving with purpose. Not the casual pace of a guard checking doors, but the measured stride of someone with a destination in mind.
Someone who knows exactly which office they’re looking for.
The footsteps stop outside my door. Shadows are moving beneath the gap, blocking out the hallway light. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain they can hear it through the steel door.
A voice, low and unmistakably accented. Italian-American, like half the wiseguys in Borsellini’s organization. “Molly. We know you’re in there.”
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. They know my name. They know exactly who I am and what I’ve been working on. Which means they know what I represent to their case.
“Just want to chat,” the voice continues, almost friendly. “Nothing unpleasant. Open the door, Ms. Morrone.”
Like hell.
I ease toward the window, briefcase clutched against my chest. There’s a fire escape that leads to the adjacent building. If I can reach it without being seen, if I can get to my car, if I can get out of the garage before they reach the ground floor...
Too many ifs. But it’s the only chance I have.
The window opens easily. Cold November air cuts through my blazer, raising goosebumps along my arms. The fire escape platform sits three feet away. I jump or wait here for Alessio’s cleanup crew to finish their work.
The doorknob rattles as someone tests it. Then the quiet beep of an electronic key card. Someone has access. These aren’t street thugs breaking down doors with crowbars. These are specialists who came prepared.
No choice at all, really.
I climb onto the window ledge, briefcase strap wrapped around my wrist, and jump.
The metal platform catches me with a bone-jarring clang that echoes through the night air. I bite back a cry of pain and start down the ladder, moving as quickly as my shaking hands will allow. Behind me, I hear the office door burst open and the vicious curse of someone who’s found an empty room.
“She’s not here,” a voice calls out, different from the first. Younger, more agitated. “Window’s open. Fucking fire escape.”
“Find her,” comes the reply. Cold, controlled, definitely Alessio himself. “Check the stairwells, check the elevators. She doesn’t leave this building.”
I’m halfway down the adjacent building’s fire escape when my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.
“Ms. Morrone.” Alessio’s voice, smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “You have something that belongs to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, still climbing down through the darkness.
“Whatever evidence you think you gathered tonight, video’s, photos, recordings you just took. You need to delete all that, along with any copies you might have made.”
My foot slips on the wet metal rung, and I have to grab the railing to keep from falling. He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly what I saw and what I recorded.
“Delete the video, destroy your case files, and walk away from the prosecution,” he continues. “Do that, and we have no problems. Continue to be... difficult... and we’ll have to discuss this face to face.”
“Go to hell.” I end the call.
The phone immediately starts ringing again, but I ignore it. I’m three blocks away from the federal building now, having taken every back alley and side street I could find. My car is in the building’s garage, but that’s obviously not anoption anymore. Public transportation has stopped running, and calling a cab would leave a digital trail.
I need help. Federal help.
My hands tremble as I scroll through my contacts, looking for the emergency number they gave all the federal prosecutors. The one we’re supposed to call if we’re ever threatened in connection with a case.
