He punched a couple keys on his laptop. Most of the things, anyway.

20

BISHOP TO G4

Brooklyn

Andy yelled, “You killed Ian, dude, you killed him, your best bud, your mentor! I liked Ian; he thought I was funny.” Something in Matthew’s eyes stopped him in his tracks. He whispered, “Can you believe he wanted to protect her? I mean, what was that all about?”

Matthew stood stock-still in the middle of the carnage, the Beretta hanging loose in his fingers. He looked away from Andy, down at Ian, then at Vanessa, saying nothing.

“And dude, you shot her dead, too. I thought you didn’t want to kill people.” Andy’s eyes suddenly glowed with a mad light. “Hey, way to go!”

Matthew barely registered Andy’s freak show. He’d always known Andy was crazy, but now he could feel the sick excitement rolling off him in waves. It turned Matthew’s blood to ice. He couldn’t stand it. He yelled, “Shut up, you idiot, or I’ll shoot you, too.” And he knew in that moment he meant it, anything to shut that crazy mouth, close those mad eyes forever.

Andy stared at him. The mad mania was gone; he looked ready to burst into tears. “Matthew, what are we supposed to do now? I mean, Ian did everything, he planned stuff and told us how to do things, and when to act; he always told me when I did a good job. And what about bombs, Matthew? Don’t we need more bombs? Vanessa built all our bombs. Are you going to use your own bombs now . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

Yelling at Andy didn’t help. Matthew had killed his friends, but the initial horror of what he’d done was gone now. It didn’t matter anyway, there was no going back. He was the leader again, and the leader said, “Andy, stop your worrying, I’ll see to everything. Haven’t I always taken care of us all? You need to pack up everything, right now. We’re leaving in three minutes, okay? Move it.”

Andy was wringing his hands. “But we can’t leave them here, Matthew.”

“I said get everything we need, I’ll take care of the rest. Two minutes, Andy. Move!”

Andy rushed to disconnect the computers and monitors while Matthew gathered the bomb bags, the suitcases, a bag of groceries from the kitchen. He was careful not to look down at Ian and Vanessa, lying drenched in their own blood.

Both men were careful to give the bodies a wide berth. It took longer than Matthew wanted to disassemble all of Andy’s equipment, and three trips to the van.

“Start the van. I’ll be right back.” Matthew grabbed a can of Andy’s special gas, his own formula, designed to make things go up in flames in a heartbeat, and started back up the stairs.

He heard Andy’s excited voice behind him: “Hey, Matthew, let me do it. Please, let me light it up.”

“I told you to start the car,” Matthew called back, not looking at him. “I’ll be right down.” No way was he going to let Andy burn down the neighborhood.

Inside, he forced himself to look down at Ian, sprawled on his back, his plaid shirt black with blood, his eyes open, staring up at Matthew. He felt a punch of pain. Andy was right, Ian had been his friend and mentor, taught him everything, but in the end he’d chosen her, not Matthew. And he couldn’t forgive that, ever, and he dumped some gasoline directly on Ian, then turned to take one last look at the woman he’d wanted, but not quite trusted, not quite, but it was close. Had he loved her? Perhaps, in moments when he was desperate to have sex with her. Tonight, though, in the aftermath of their brilliant success, his blood roaring through his body, he knew he would have told her everything and she would have skipped out, dancing because she’d won.

She was dead; it was all over. She lay on her side, her white shirt covered with blood, her hair floating in it. He felt bile rise in his throat. No, no, he’d done the right thing, the only reasonable thing. She’d betrayed him. Who was she? Some sort of spy, an agent? He didn’t know, and now it didn’t matter. She would burn with Ian.

Matthew turned away from her and methodically poured gasoline all over the apartment, but he didn’t pour any on her. He said her name aloud, one last time, “Vanessa,” and tossed the gasoline can in the corner. He threw a lighted match in the hall beside the stairs, listened to it whoosh as it caught the carpet on fire. He ran down the stairs. He never looked back.

21

BISHOP TO G5

Brooklyn

Vanessa floated.

Had she heard Matthew’s voice? She wasn’t sure, but her brain knew enough to keep her still and silent. There was always danger when you spent half your life undercover, and tonight she’d stepped right in it.

Being awake opened the floodgates and she was suddenly swamped in pain. She smelled her own blood, knew the pain would get worse and worse and she could die.

Matthew had shot her, after he’d shot Ian. Ian had tried to save her, despite the fact that he had to know it was her phone and she wasn’t really one of them. No, she couldn’t think about that now.

There was something else—she smelled smoke. Matthew had set the apartment on fire.

She didn’t want to, but she touched her chest, felt all the hot sticky blood, her blood. It was bad, really bad. She managed to raise her head. She didn’t see any flames, but she heard them in the hallway, whooshing along the threadbare carpet toward the living room. Smoke was creeping in; soon the room would be gray and she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

If you don’t get out of here now you will die. Tie up your chest and go.

Pain ripped through her when she sat up. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. She could barely breathe. She figured her lung had collapsed and her chest was filling with blood. The smoke was getting heavier now, the sound of the fire getting closer. She realized it was blocking the hallway to the stairs. No hope for it. She dragged herself to her feet, holding on to a chair for support. She looked down at Ian, then quickly away; there was nothing she could do for him.

She had to get to the hidden access to the roof, the only way out. It was their bolthole, one of the reasons Matthew had chosen this apartment.

The ladder to the roof was inside the closet in the master bedroom. She would make it, she had to, she had no choice. She dragged herself down the hallway, using the wall for support, to the bedroom, then into the small closet, with the ladder at the back.

She imagined she heard her dead father’s voice loud and clear as she climbed that ladder, each step so hard, nearly impossible, but there he was, saying over and over, Be glad of the pain, it means you’re still alive. Now get out of there, Nessa, do you hear me? And it comforted.

His words became a mantra her mind whispered again and again as she began her climb up the ladder in the closet. When she finally crawled out onto the pebbled roof, she collapsed to the ground, coughing. Blood spattered out of her mouth and she sucked in air, but never enough. Smoke was billowing up all around her.

She crawled to the fire escape, her only chance, since the building itself was now burning.

Her father’s voice kept at her, yelling now over the pain, pushing her, pushing her. She crawled to the ledge. The ground looked a mile away, but she knew it was only three stories down. I can’t make it, Dad, I can’t make it.

And again his frantic urging: Don’t you let that crazy bastard win, do you hear me, Nessa? You move, and you move now! Vanessa felt a bolt of fury and swung her legs onto the metal tread of the fire escape.