Then I hit the opposite roof in a practiced roll, absorbing the impact and coming up in a crouch, knife already in hand. The first guard never registered surprise. My blade slipped between his ribs, puncturing his heart. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before glazing over. I caught his collapsing body, lowering it silently.
The second guard had better instincts. He spun toward the sound, hand scrambling for his weapon, mouth opening for a warning shout. I reached him before air hit his vocal cords, one hand smothering his mouth, the other driving my knife upward through the soft tissue under his chin. The blade crunched through bone, straight into his brain stem. His body spasmed once, then went slack. A quick, merciful death. More mercy than he deserved for working for Prometheus, but I hadn't come for the supporting cast. I came for the star of this fucked-up show.
Two bodies, no alarms. Phase one complete.
I moved to the service door Lo had identified, pausing to extract the synthetic skin pocket from my tactical vest. Three special pennies it had cost me, this perfect replica of Prometheus's handprint crafted into a fleshy glove. Costa's work justified every penny. I slid it onto my hand and rubbed it to warm it before pressing it against the scanner, holding my breath.
A soft beep, a flash of green light, and the door clicked open.
The storm moved closer, lightning flashing more frequently now, the gaps between light and thunder narrowing.
I slipped inside, moving through the darkness. The penthouse matched Lo's blueprints exactly. A private elevator lobby, leading to a massive great room with those floor-to-ceiling windows. A spiral staircase connected the three levels, and hallways branched off in multiple directions. All sleek lines and minimalist design, cold and impersonal despite the obvious wealth.
I avoided the main areas, sticking to service corridors that ran like veins through the heart of the building. The kitchen gleamed with state-of-the-art appliances, large enough to serve two dozen guests, though I doubted Prometheus entertained often. Men like him didn't have friends, only assets and enemies.
I frowned.
Too easy. This was all too fucking easy.
From somewhere deep in the penthouse, faint strains of classical music reached my ears. Bach, I recognized. One of the cello suites Jane had taught me to identify during cultural education.
A trap, then. Of course it was a trap. I'd known this from the beginning, hadn't I? Prometheus wouldn't go down without a fight, without one final game. One final test for his favorite pupil.
And yet I moved forward, anyway. Sometimes the only way out was through.
Outside, lightning flashed again, closer now, thunder following almost immediately. The storm loomed nearly overhead.
The master bedroom occupied most of the top floor, a sprawling suite larger than most people's entire homes. The door stood slightly ajar, a thin blade of light slicing through darkness. An invitation.
I drew my gun, a custom Glock with a suppressor. Not that I expected to use it. Guns created noise, mess. Personal wasn't the word for what this was. This was intimate. This was closure.
This was twenty-six years in the making.
I pushed the door open with the barrel of my gun, scanning the room quickly. Empty, except for the king-sized bed against the far wall, black silk sheets perfectly made. Above it hung a large painting: Prometheus being chained by Vulcan. The titan's face contorted in agony as the god of fire secured his bonds, preparing him for eternaltorment.
Subtle, Prometheus. Real fucking subtle.
The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air. Not Prometheus's cologne, something lighter, floral with notes of jasmine. Expensive. Recent.
My stomach twisted. Ana. She'd been here. Today. Hours ago, maybe.
The thought of her in this place, in his bed, nearly broke my focus. Every protective instinct roared to life, demanding I find her, save her, now. But first, I needed to deal with him. Permanently.
Thunder crashed directly overhead, the sound powerful enough to shake the entire building. Rain began to lash against the windows, distorting city lights beyond, transforming them into blurred watercolor smears. The storm arrived in full force.
The balcony doors stood open, white curtains billowing inward like ghosts in the storm winds. And there, silhouetted against the raging tempest, a figure stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the chaos of the elements.
Lincoln Mercer. Prometheus. The bogeyman who had haunted my nightmares for twenty-six years.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said without turning, his voice carrying easily over the storm's fury. "Zeus' wrath made manifest. The ancient Greeks believed thunderstorms were divine punishment, that it was the gods expressing their displeasure with mortals."
The sound of his voice hit me like a gut punch. My throat constricted, ice bands tightening around my chest until I could barely breathe. Something electric and terrible raced up my spine, my body remembering what my mind desperately wanted to forget. My finger on the trigger began to tremble, not with fear but with a violent collision of instincts. Attack, run, freeze, submit.
Twenty-six years of nightmares crystallized in that moment. The voice that had shaped me, molded me, broken me. The voice that had whispered in Milan's darkness. My muscles locked in place even as my mind screamed to move, to act, to end this now. Sweat broke out across my skin despite the chill, a primal response to a predator my body recognized before my conscious mind could process.
Lightning split the sky behind him, illuminating his figure for a breathless moment. Rain spattered against the marble balcony, but somehow not a drop seemed to touch him.
"Did you know," he continued, still watching the storm, "that in the original myth, Prometheus wasn't just punished for stealing fire? He was punished for giving humans the capacity for civilization. For elevating them above their station."
