He was, too, Anthony realized. He wasn’t a nervous little mouse like that fellow had been. He was smart and funny and very well capable of walking without scurrying, and he’d have stood up to Cicero despite the danger to his life, and told Cicero a thing or two, just as brave as Anthony or Winston had ever been.
And if he was here, he’d stop me from killing Cicero. Which is the other reason I had to leave him behind.
Is he even going to understand why?
... Do I understand why? Cicero’s killed so many people. Why did Bea order it now?
Anthony stopped by the bay of elevators, along with half a dozen other people. He studied the Directory, helpfully placed by the buttons, which clearly listed Executive Office—8th floor.
By the time he turned around, everyone had disappeared. An empty elevator waited to take him upstairs.
Dinner’s at seven, remembered Anthony, and almost chuckled.
At least there won’t be witnesses. And everyone will be home in time for dinner.
Anthony boarded it, cautious and tense. But there wasn’t anyone in the corners, hiding in plain sight. There wasn’t anyone clinging to the roof, ready to fight.
There weren’t any secret panels, either, and Anthony was fairly well-practiced at noticing secret panels.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor, and the elevator went up.
Focus on the mission, Anthony told himself sternly, falling into his old habit of straightening his shirt sleeves, tightening his tie, adjusting his cufflinks.
Don’t focus on the weight of the gun in its holster. The aching pain of missing Elliot, and the growing guilt about what he was about to do.
Bea wouldn’t change the game without a reason. Cicero’s killed before, so it can’t be that he killed Enrique. It can’t be that he wants to kill Elliot, either – it’s hardly news that he’d want to kill my partner.
Except... Elliot wasn’t my partner when that transcript was taken. How did Cicero know about Elliot, let alone his job at the DVM or how close he was getting to Cicero’s funding? It must have been Mastermind; we know they work for the DVM. Whoever Mastermind is, they must have told Cicero. Which means Mastermind must be read into Cicero’s file, too.
But why Elliot? Bea couldn’t have known about that threat, or she’d never have sent Elliot into the field with me. That’s as good as sending him to his death – that’s exactly what Cicero wants!
It’s... what...
Anthony’s breath came quick; his heart pounded in his ears. The back of his neck felt sweaty and clammy, too hot and too cold all at once.
When Anthony saw his reflection in the mirrored walls, he realized his eyes were dilated.
Shit.
Anthony slammed the stop button; the elevator jerked to a halt. But Anthony kept staring at the floor, not quite seeing anything.
Panic attack, he thought—but it didn’t feel like it. Not exactly. Anthony breathed deeply, counting the breaths—and even if it wasn’t a true panic attack, he felt better anyway.
“Okay,” Anthony said to himself, trying to sound hearty and convincing. “In and out. Here we go.”
But.
Anthony’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d almost forgotten he had it. His fingers were too thick and clumsy to pull it out before the message disappeared from the screen—the only thing he caught was Elliot’s name as the sender.
Elliot, who surely would have talked him through the panic attack. Pull him back from the brink, put him back on track for completing his assignment.
Regardless of his orders.
End the charade.
Anthony swiped open the phone and quickly placed the call. Bea answered on the second ring.
“Is it done?”
Anthony tried not to wince at her harsh, overly loud tone. “No.”
“Well, why not? You’re there, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I haven’t found him yet.”
“Then why waste time calling me?” Bea had always been brisk, efficient, to the point. The pressure of having issued a kill order was clearly making her testy, though—even when she wasn’t the one pulling the trigger.
Maybe that made it worse? Not having any control over what happened in the field?
“I need to know why you sent Elliot on this mission.”
There was a pause. “For God’s sake, Anthony,” said Bea, exasperated. “Do what I’ve assigned you to do. Cicero is a murderer. He killed Enrique for the fun of it, and you’re still complaining about the analyst? Just leave him somewhere convenient and do your job.”
Leave him somewhere convenient.
“So I shouldn’t bring Elliot to Cicero,” said Anthony carefully. “Keep Elliot safe, is that my job?”
“Your job is to kill Cicero,” said Bea firmly. “And to stop worrying about Elliot Bichler, who I’m sure can take care of himself. Put him at a computer terminal somewhere, I’m sure he can keep himself perfectly occupied for a few minutes.”
Anthony took a breath. “He’s safe. I left him at O’Leary’s safehouse.”
“Wonderful,” said Bea. She actually sounded surprised. “In that case, get the fuck out of that elevator and do what I’ve ordered you to do.”
“All right,” said Anthony. He ended the call and slid the phone back in his pocket, still feeling unsettled.
If Bea knew Cicero wanted Elliot dead, she’d have been upset that I’d left him behind. But Elliot’s safe, he’s will Daria, and O’Leary doesn’t want to kill Elliot. Elliot’s safe.
And... I have a job to do.
It still didn’t sit quite right. And Anthony had forgotten to ask about Winston.
Winston doesn’t matter, Anthony reminded himself. Winston’s gone.
Get him next time. End the charade.
Anthony straightened his tie and adjusted his cufflinks. He smoothed his coat and hit the button that allowed the elevator to continue.
Three floors.
Two floors.
One.
The doors opened.
Six men wearing combat gear stood at the door, guns pointed directly at Anthony’s chest.
“Oh,” said Anthony, exactly as if this happened every time he rode an elevator. Usually because it did. “Hello. Would this be Cicero’s floor, by any chance?”
The guards looked at each other and then looked at him.
A guard in the back lifted his wrist to his mouth and murmured. It sounded oddly like, “He’s bantering with us, sir.”
There was a measured shriek from the guards’ watches. They all winced—even Anthony. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BANTERING? HE DOESN’T BANTER WITH YOU! HE BANTERS WITH ME!”
“Is that Cicero?” asked Anthony hopefully.
“You’re... asking us?” said the guard on the left, a little like he couldn’t believe Anthony Dare was actually talking to him.
“Tell him I’ll be happy to banter with him,” said Anthony. “I just don’t know where he is. The intel on this place is terrible. Don’t suppose you could give me directions?”
The guards looked at each other again.
“Or an escort?” offered Anthony.
Anthony easily fell into formation—guards surrounded him, marching him down the hall. The lock-step clacking of their boots was comfortingly familiar.