She could see the gate to the grounds, the parking lot, and half of the building proper.
She knew Mulvaney was inside, knew Lanighan had hurt him. He was probably in pain, wondering where she was, if she had a plan to save him. All she knew for sure was that she was going to destroy Saleem Lanighan tonight.
Lanighan’s Mercedes came into the warehouse parking lot at ten minutes to ten. She trained her monocle on the car, watched Lanighan get out and hurry inside the warehouse. He shouted something to his driver, but she couldn’t make out his words. She could tell, however, he was mad. At her? Good. Mad meant off balance, and that would make her job easier.
The warehouse had windows high up on the second floor and she could get only an idea of where people were from the shadowy movements behind the lights.
She counted off until she saw him again on the second floor. Thirty seconds. There was probably a single stairwell and hallway. She’d loaded the blueprints for the space, and knew the building was divided into two areas—an open bottom floor, where large paintings and sculptures were kept, the space large enough for a decent-size truck to drive in and out. She knew the setup was sophisticated and fully automated, knew hundreds of paintings were kept on racks electronically programmed to slide out from the wall for easy access and storage.
The second floor had a very large office where the manager of the warehouse worked and where occasional buyers came to see art Lanighan was selling. She was convinced this was where they were holding Mulvaney.
She saw the guards patrolling the grounds were only casually alert. They weren’t expecting the show—namely, her—until later, which was the reason she was hitting them now.
With her left hand, she screwed the suppressor into the threaded barrel of the H&K MP23. She hated guns, always had, after the long ago incident, as she often thought of it, with her parents, but she wasn’t about to go in without one. The H&K fit her hand nicely, the suppressor giving it only a few ounces of additional weight. She tucked it into the custom-made leather holster, felt for the two tear-gas canisters she had placed in the pockets of her black cargo pants. Four knives were in place, two strapped to her outer thighs, two to her stomach in a cross-handed pull.
She did square breathing, in for four counts, hold for four, out for four, hold for four; when she felt the familiar clean emptiness, she started down off the rooftop.
She went silent as a cat through the night, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the moon guiding her steps, sure and quick. Five hundred feet to the warehouse. Three hundred. Two. She swallowed and slowed, listening for the guards in case they circled around the back of the warehouse.
Nothing. She was clear.
She drew her gun, walked forward, watching for the metal staircase she needed to climb to the second-floor window.
A voice spoke from the darkness: “Stop, right there.”
She whipped around, crouched, gun pointed, finger already putting pressure on the trigger, but she realized she couldn’t risk firing yet, not outside. Even suppressed, it might bring the guards.
Decision made in a split second, her movements quick and sure, she holstered the gun and whipped a K-Bar knife out of its sheath on her thigh. The weapon made a vicious whisper as it left the webbing, and she readied it, sharp edge out.
A man took a step from the darkness and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Drummond!
She lashed out at him, and he danced back, away from her lunge, back arched and stomach drawn in. Close, but she didn’t get him.