The limestone facade of the Lockridge townhouse looked even more imposing under the harsh, freezing glare of the November streetlamps.
The Escalade idled at the curb. Hayes stepped out, scanning the quiet, tree-lined perimeter of the Upper East Side block before opening the rear door.
Ryan stepped onto the pavement. He wore a dark, tailored suit, a charcoal shirt, and no tie. He didn't dress for a boardroom. He dressed for a hostile negotiation.
"Hold the perimeter," Ryan told Hayes.
"Yes, sir," the mercenary replied, stepping back into the shadows of the vehicle.
Ryan ascended the stone steps and struck the heavy brass knocker.
A uniformed maid opened the door almost instantly, taking his overcoat with a silent, practiced nod. She led him through the grand, bone-colored foyer, the sound of his boots muffled by thick Persian rugs.
The dining room was lit by a massive crystal chandelier. The long mahogany table was set for three.
