The copper tang of blood hit the back of my throat before the first body even hit the concrete. I didn't scream. Screaming was a luxury for people who believed help was coming. I pressed my spine against the rusted, corrugated metal of a shipping container, my breath coming in shallow, silent sips. Through the narrow gap between the steel crates, Pier 90 was bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single flickering floodlight. It made the blood look black—thick, oily, and final.
Three men were on their knees. Their designer suits were ruined, soaked through with the grime of the docks and the salt spray. Standing over them was a man who radiated a predatory stillness that made the air feel heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by lead. Silas Vane didn't hold his weapon like a threat; he held it like an extension of his own hand, a tool as mundane as a silver fountain pen.
"I don't like repetitions, Arthur," Silas said. His voice was a low, melodic grate that skipped over my skin like a cold blade. "I asked where the ledger is. You gave me a name. I killed that name ten minutes ago."
"Please, Silas... I have a family," the man in the center sobbed, his forehead touching the wet gravel.
Silas tilted his head, a gesture of terrifying curiosity. "Everyone has a family, Arthur. That's not a commodity. It's a liability."
He raised the suppressed pistol. Phut. The sound was sickeningly domestic—like a heavy book falling onto a rug. Arthur's body slumped forward without a struggle. The other two men began to wail, a frantic, animalistic sound that bounced off the hollow steel containers. I felt my camera bag heavy against my hip. I was supposed to be here for a silent expose on the ivory trade. Instead, I was documenting the extinction of the Vane family's rivals.
I framed the shot. Silas was illuminated by the muzzle flash of the second shot. Click. The shutter was silent, but the internal sensor light—a tiny, red eye I'd forgotten to tape over—flickered. In the darkness, it was a flare.
Silas turned his head toward my container with the smooth focus of a hawk spotting movement in the grass. "Check the crates," he commanded.
I didn't run. Running would trigger a hunt, and Silas Vane didn't look like the type to lose a chase. I stepped out from the shadows, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm that I refused to let reach my face. I walked into the center of the light, stopping five feet from him. I didn't look at the bodies. I looked at him. His eyes were a startling, icy gray.
"You're late for the show," Silas said, stepping over a pool of widening red. He stopped inches from me. He smelled of cedar, expensive rain, and gunpowder. "Who sent you?"
"I'm freelance," I said. My voice was steady, though I had to swallow hard against the dryness in my throat.
He reached out, his gloved thumb catching my chin and forcing my head up. I didn't flinch. I leaned into the touch, staring directly into the gray abyss of his gaze.
"You're not shaking," he noted. "Your pulse is jumping in your neck like a trapped thing, but your hands are still. Why?"
"Because shaking doesn't stop bullets," I replied. "And you've already decided if you're going to kill me. Why waste the energy?"
One of the guards stepped forward. "Boss, she saw everything. Give the word."
Silas didn't take his eyes off mine. He was studying me with a clinical, lethal interest. "She didn't close her eyes," he whispered. He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "You watched me kill Arthur. Most people look away. Why didn't you?"
"I wanted to see if you felt anything," I said.
He pulled back, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "And?"
"You didn't. You're just doing a job."
Silas reached out and took my camera from my shoulder. He dropped it onto the concrete and crushed it under his heel. The sound of expensive glass shattering made me blink—just once—a tiny fracture in my mask.
"You're coming with me," he said.
"I have a life, Silas. People will look for me," I lied.
"No one looks for ghosts, Marlowe," he said, using my name as if he'd stolen it from my mind. He pulled my press ID from my pocket with a flick of his wrist. "From this moment on, that's exactly what you are."
He turned to his men. "Kill the third one. Clean the site. Bring the girl to the estate."
"Why?" I asked. "You have no use for a witness."
Silas paused at the door of his black SUV. He looked back at me over his shoulder, his eyes glinting with a sudden, sharp hunger. "Most people break the moment I look at them," he said softly. "But some... I like to see unravel slowly. You aren't a witness, Marlowe. You're a puzzle. And I've always enjoyed taking things apart to see how they work."
The guards grabbed my arms, shoving me toward a vehicle. The last thing I saw was Silas Vane watching me through the tinted glass. He wasn't waiting for me to cry. He was waiting for me to try and escape, just so he could see which piece of me would fail first.