Chapter Fifty-Seven

Perth Amboy, New Jersey

October 31

T he two enforcers that had beaten him up the last time joined their entourage in the warehouse and shackled Miles to a chair in the center of the room.

The bald one asked, “You pat him down?”

Big Mike replied, “Took a gun and his phone. He’s clean.”

The sound of footsteps on metal stairs had everyone looking to the back of the room where Chug Ugentti, dressed in a too sharp suit, was coming down from his office.

Chug looked at Miles in his costume. “Well, well, if it isn’t Little Lord Fuckalot. Or should I say, Miles Buchanan?”

Miles revealed nothing as he sat chained. Chug walked up to him and punched him in the face.

His head flew back, and blood ran from his nose and upper lip.

Ugentti shook out his hand and paced the gritty floor. Another man entered with a laptop under his arm and sat at a folding table opposite them.

“I gave you carrot after carrot, you stupid fuck. Now you get the stick. You see, I’m not some pinky-out, polo-playing politician who makes problems go away with a checkbook. I’m Chester fucking Ugentti. I’m a made man. I make problems go away by putting them in the foundation of construction projects. I make problems go away by chopping them in a million pieces and throwing them in the Atlantic.”

Miles gave a frustrated yank to his restraints, then gathered himself. He needed to remain calm. After spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor, he said, “I’ll do what you want, Chug.”

Ugentti nodded to his enforcer, and the man stepped forward and rammed his fist into Miles’s gut.

“You’re goddamned right you will.” Ugentti turned to the young man sitting behind him. “Antonio here is my sister’s son. He’s a real whiz on the computer. You’re going to sit at that table and transfer every file on every client you’ve ever had. Antonio is going to watch you. If he holds up a finger, that means he doesn’t like what you’re doing, and I fire a bullet into your knee. Every fuck up is another bullet. So, I suggest you work clean.”

The other guard unlocked his cuffs, hauled Miles to his feet, and shoved him into the folding chair in front of the laptop. Antonio stared over his shoulder as Miles accessed his client files.

Chug said, “I don’t operate like the rest of your Ivy League fucks. The rules don’t apply.”

Miles looked at Chug over the laptop screen and said, “There’s one rule that applies.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“You can’t kill the daughter of Vincent Barzetti.”

C lara cut the ignition and wheeled the bike to a stop beneath the rickety fire escape. She glanced up at the loose bolts and peeling paint, hoping it would hold her weight. Gingerly, she began to climb.

The roof was a minefield of cracked skylights, some tipped open, others broken out entirely. She looked through a hole and saw Miles being dragged across the cement floor to a computer. He already looked badly beaten. Clara maneuvered across the asphalt in the climbing shoes she still wore, mindful of the broken glass and loose pieces of jagged metal. She found an opening above some high shelving and stopped. She didn’t have any tools or a weapon, but she did have the rappelling line from the art heist at Lucien Kite’s still tucked in the side pocket of her leggings.

Clara debated the wisdom of her actions. If Miles had his way, she’d be locked in a high tower or on a plane to Timbuktu. Convinced that if their situations were reversed, he would unhesitatingly come to her aid, she prepared the line. A car passed beneath the floodlights at the gate. Clara moved to the front of the roof and peered over the edge as a Bentley rolled to a stop. Moments later, two SUVs parked behind it.

All Clara could see from this distance in the dark were the tops of heads and vicious-looking guns as the group of ten moved silently toward the building. Without a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back to the rappelling line. She had no climbing gear, so Clara slid the mechanism under a pipe, secured it, and then clipped the wire to the corset laces on the front of the costume bodice. If there was one thing The Lynx could do better than anyone, it was improvise.

Slowly, Clara began lowering herself into the warehouse.

Every head in the room was focused on Miles as he spoke. She couldn’t make out the words, but Miles was a strategist; he was always outthinking, outmaneuvering. This was when he was at his most compelling.

When her feet touched the top of the storage shelf, Clara knelt between two crates filled with old machine parts. She listened to what Miles was saying, waiting for an opportunity to help.