Page 2 of Unlocked

Richard North appeared, rubbing his face, irritation visible on his features, despite the darkened landing. He wanted the best of everything. The world needed to see how much money he had. Extravagance was proof. Power was performance. He didn’t care that he’d ripped thousands of people off to get where he was. He’d done it successfully, and that was the most important thing. The money was his; no one could take it from him.

The penthouse was obscene, five bedrooms, five bathrooms, two floors overlooking Central Park. A monument to excess. Empty now. His family had left three years earlier, leaving Richard to rattle around alone.

The staircase was his favorite feature. Curved. Floating. Marble steps that gleamed during the day and betrayed you at night.

Richard reached for the handrail.

“Richard.”

The assassin stepped out behind him, voice calm. Certain. Loud enough to startle.

Richard spun.

Screamed.

Missed the step.

His body tumbled down the staircase, limbs flailing, skull cracking against marble. The sound echoed, the crunch of each hit. He landed in a twisted heap at the bottom, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

The killer waited.

Nothing.

There was no need to check for a pulse. Richard’s eyes stared, glassy and unseeing. A smile came easily.

The killer descended the stairs, stepped over the body, and retrieved the burner phone from the coffee table, slipping it into a pocket. Evidence traveled too easily these days. Richard’s phone was left behind. After all, it explained why he’d come downstairs in the middle of the night.

The back staircase awaited, another luxury of buildings like this. Service exits. Invisible paths, rarely monitored, the security cameras there hadn’t worked for at least six months, in accordance with the master plan.

In the garage, the mask was removed and tucked away. A hat went on, brim pulled low. Black clothes. Anonymous.

Just another Manhattanite dressed in black, disappearing into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

Archer Gray stood at the window and watched the Seine flow below him. Storm clouds pressed low over the river, heavy with rain too stubborn to fall. The view suited his mood perfectly.

He checked his watch. Fourteen minutes.

When had his existence become so regimented? He almost smiled at the question. For the last several decades, his life had always been regimented. Precision was how he'd survived, minute by minute, year by year, counting each one as a small, private victory over a world that had tried with too much regularity to kill him.

The real question was when had he started resenting it?

He'd loved this job once. When Joel Longfellow, suffering from pancreatic cancer with no heir apparent, had brought him in, Archer had understood exactly what was being offered. A kingdom. And he'd wanted it. The Society had saved his life in the way that only real purpose could, and he'd given it everything in return. Control. Loyalty. The particular brand of ruthlessness the position demanded.

Now he stood at a Paris window, counting minutes and wondering when everything had quietly gone to hell.

If he were being honest with himself, he could pinpoint the beginning of his discontent. The whispers had started months ago. Someone was moving against him. He'd dismissed the first reports, not out of carelessness, but because the idea had seemed genuinely impossible. Joel had assured him the position was untouchable. No one plotted against the head of the Lock and Key Society. It simply wasn't done.

Joel had been wrong. Or naïve. In the end, it amounted to the same thing.

Complacency. That was the real enemy, and Archer was not accustomed to being his own worst mistake. He'd been so certain of his control that he'd stopped checking the foundations. And somewhere in that certainty, cracks had formed.

A man could make plans, and God laughs. He didn't believe in God, particularly. But the devil? That he could work with. In his experience, the devil was simply a man with better information and fewer scruples, and Archer had spent his entire career being exactly that man.

He moved to the desk. He shot the cuffs of his crisp white shirt with the automatic precision of someone who'd learned long ago that the way a man dressed was the first thing his enemies read. He straightened the sides of his navy blazer, then reached into the drawer and closed his hand around the Glock.

There had been a time when bringing a gun to a board meeting would have struck him as excessive.