Page 163 of Chameleon Killer

“No.”

It was almost impressive how much refusal Carter could pack into one syllable.

“This isn't a negotiation.”

“You're right.” Carter stepped around him.

Foster caught his shoulder.

Carter stopped.

The two men stared at each other.

Under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed watching Foster explain federal tactical procedure to a newsroom director who possessed neither patience nor respect for institutional authority.

Tonight, I didn't have time. “He comes,” I said.

Foster looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. “Brewster⁠—”

“He knows McBryan's behavior better than anyone here.”

Carter's attention shifted to me. I ignored it. The statement wasn't entirely true. I knew her. Or believed I did.

Foster swore and pointed at Carter. “You stay behind us. You don't touch anything. You don't move unless we tell you to move.”

“Fine.”

“If someone starts shooting⁠—”

“I duck.”

“You get behind cover.”

“That too.”

Foster looked at me.

I shrugged. “He’s an adult. Let’s go.”

We entered the stairwell.

The building had twelve occupied—or theoretically occupiable—floors above the lobby.

According to the prior thermal scan, Mallory had gone to twelve.

There was no access from eleven because the renovation had sealed the connecting office floors. No working elevator. No exterior fire escape above seven. The stairwells were the only viable routes.

Which meant anyone leaving twelve had to come through us. Finally, a containment problem we could handle.

Foster's team moved ahead of us, weapons drawn but lowered. Carter and I followed several steps behind.

Second floor.

Clear.

Third.

Clear.