Stirred

He walked around the desk and Peter heard his footsteps trailing away toward the door, followed by the sound of the lock clicking into place.

Siders returned and hoisted the fire-ax off the floor.

“Glass cutting at its finest,” he said.

Swung.

April 1, 1:45 P.M.

I grabbed Phin’s phone away from him and yelled at Herb to hurry.

He said, “Cops are on their way. Roe is on the twelfth floor. Security is already on their way up.”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Jack—” Both Herb and Phin said it at the same time, but I was already storming out the automatic exit doors, looking for McGlade.

His Tesla was parked in a handicapped spot.

He was playing TowerMadness.

“Hiya, Jackie. Almost beat the Dice level.”

I tugged open the passenger door and slid into the seat. “How fast does this bucket go?”

“Zero to sixty in three point seven seconds.”

“Show me.”

April 1, 1:48 P.M.

The pick end of the ax head punched through the office window, which spiderwebbed into a million fractures but stayed intact. Siders ripped the ax head out and struck again, and again, and again, tiny squares of plastic-coated safety glass raining down on Peter’s face as the cool April air streamed in.

Peter was screaming against his gag, wondering if Kelly and his associates could hear the noise, but in truth, it wasn’t that loud, and it didn’t matter if they did.

He recalled the speech he gave to every new hire (which, considering his turnover, was a frequent occurrence) where he preached his open-door policy, with one caveat: Never, under any circumstance, come into my office when the door is closed. Don’t even knock. Because I’m either sleeping or naked.

That policy had sure come back to bite him in the ass.

Bound and gagged and watching this maniac tear a hole through his window, Peter Roe realized he was an asshole. Greedy, selfish, demanding. He’d been okay with it up until this moment, because of the money. That balm of being rich that soothed so many of life’s ills, including a guilty conscience. But soon, he was going to be dead, that money unreachable, and so now he only had the knowledge of what an asshole he’d been. A douche bag, as his son would say, and it was his douche baggery that had landed him in this spot.

Siders tossed the ax onto Peter’s sofa and wiped the sweat that was pouring off his brow.

The hole he’d created was ragged, irregular, about three feet across at its widest point, and as Peter stared through it, it occurred to him for the first time what was about to happen.

For some reason, he’d assumed this psycho was going to stab him to death, but that wasn’t it at all.

Siders grabbed his legs and dragged him across the carpeting toward the hole, Peter squirming, fighting with everything he had to break free, but all he accomplished was digging the plastic zip-ties so deep into his skin he could feel fresh blood begin to flow.

His feet moved through the opening, dangling out over Dearborn Street, and then he was out up to his knees, the awful tug of gravity already begi

Siders sat on his stomach, momentarily halting his progression through the hole.

“I envy you,” he said. “‘When will I die?’ is a question that haunts every man. No one knows the day, let alone the hour. But you do.” Siders glanced at his watch. “In seventy seconds, you’re going out this window. I promised Jack you’d live to see the fall, which is why I’m not cutting your throat first. I’ll shut up now, and give you a moment to pray or make your peace or whatever you feel the need to do.”

Peter realized this had to be that madman who’d hung the woman off the bridge near Kinzie Street, the one who’d dropped that professor in a fish-food box at the aquarium.

What were the odds?

“Forty-five seconds, counselor.”

He couldn’t speak, so he couldn’t beg, but he had a hunch his cries and blubbering would make no difference. Roe wasn’t religious, and it surprised him that even now, on the literal precipice of death, he had no sudden fear or belief in God. Only a gaping emptiness in the pit of his soul that he recognized as regret.

“Thirty seconds.”

Regret for so many things.

But he came back to something he’d told his wife, his son, his friends, so many times—guilt, worry, jealousy, and regret—these were worthless emotions that accomplished nothing.

And so he attempted to clear his mind.

A sudden noise ripped him back into the moment.

He craned his neck, saw the door to his office burst inward.

His staff? His wonderful, disobedient staff, rushing to his rescue?

No! Something even better.

Security from the lobby!

Two men whose names he’d never even taken the time to learn had broken in with guns.

They’d come to save his life.

April 1, 1:50 P.M.

“Holy…shit…”

“Yeah. Does it feel like eighty or what?”

The city blurred by, the acceleration in McGlade’s Tesla reminding me of my younger years, when I thought roller coasters were a good idea. I was actually pi

But McGlade swerved, and the car proved its handling was just as wicked as its speed, narrowly missing the bus, weaving between a cab and an SUV, and then drifting through two El-track posts until we swung out onto Wabash, speeding south.

“Remember The French Co