Through the windows, the back of the hotel had been replaced by the milky white of smoke as Northwell’s clients were on their feet, some gasping, most silently stunned.
Unlike Alexandra, Milo hadn’t noticed Li Fan putting on her latex gloves, but he had seen Vetrov’s white ones. Now he turned to see that Vetrov had moved to join Li Fan, who reached into her coat and handed the Russian something small and white. And that was when he knew. That was when he remembered Whippet’s long-ago report on Chinese technology. He knew what would happen, and how.
Oskar, at the microphone, said, “No need to worry. Please. You are all very safe.”
“No!” Milo shouted, but Li Fan was already taking three long steps toward Halliwell, who stood gaping at the window. Li Fan raised her arm and pointed her own white object at the back of Halliwell’s head. She pulled the lever, and the 3D-printed plastic gun fired, popping loudly in a bright flash. She tossed the wasted gun aside, but by then it had served its purpose, shooting a single plastic bullet into the back of Halliwell’s skull. The front of his forehead exploded, a burst of bone and brain spraying across the window, and he dropped to his knees, then onto his face.
There were screams. There was panic.
“Please,” Oskar said in his calmest voice. “Settle down.”
That was when Foster, shaken and stunned, realized Vetrov was approaching her, raising his own plastic gun.
Milo began to run.
Foster turned to flee just as Vetrov pulled the lever, shattering the gun and blowing out a piece of her skull. She fell. Vetrov tossed the weapon aside and approached, but Milo got there first and shoved him away. He crouched to take a look at her. Foster was still conscious, gasping. It had been a bad shot, leaving her skull open and the mangled brain visible. She was going to have to live through all of it until she bled out.
Lips trembling, she told Milo, “I don’t feel it.”
He heard someone clearing his throat over the speakers. It was Oskar, at the podium. Fucking Oskar Leintz. And fucking Erika Schwartz.
Beyond the podium, Francis had walked over to the glass door to the courtyard stairs and pushed it open. Smoke began to creep inside. He was so calm. They were all so calm. Then Haroun and the man they had known as Joseph Keller burst inside from the corridor, followed by Leticia and Poitevin. Then the others. They looked at the bodies and then the open courtyard door, where white smoke billowed inside, almost swallowing Francis. The outside world, it seemed, had vanished.
“Excuse me,” said Oskar, now holding the mic. “Please. Everyone please calm down.”
They didn’t calm down, so he went on, louder this time.
“What you have just seen is a shot across the bow. So that you understand the seriousness of our proposal. Northwell is over. Your contracts with them are void. Understand: If any of this is revived, we will not arrest you. We will murder you.”
Someone, somewhere in the crowd, was weeping loudly.
Oskar raised a finger. “One more thing—this is important. You will be questioned. You will all have the same story. It is this,” Oskar went on, pointing at the door where Francis stood: “Two members of the Massive Brigade came through there and killed these people. One was a woman named Ingrid Parker. They did not give a speech. They did not say a thing. They opened that door, walked in, committed murder, and left. The savages.”
Milo looked down at Foster. Her eyes were still open, flicking around, confused, and though her mouth moved nothing came out.
Oskar turned to Li Fan and Vetrov. “I think that covers it. Yes?”
Li Fan shrugged, and Vetrov nodded, but his eyes were on the third row, where Sergei Stepanov was standing at the edge of the crowd with two other Russians. Stepanov’s face seemed to contain worlds: anger and confusion and fear. Slumped in a chair not far away, Oliver Booth looked as if he’d been tranquilized.
“Okay,” Oskar said, and laid the mic back on the podium with a clank. Francis joined him, and the four intelligence officials left the room together. Haroun Ghali, stunned, only watched them pass.
Leticia, perhaps also in shock, even opened the door so they could leave. Then she came over to Milo, squatted next to him, and said, “She’s dead.”
He looked down at Grace Foster’s corpse. Around them, everyone started making their way out of the room in a hurry. They were quieter than he would have imagined, each only interested in their own escape.
“Alex?” he called, looking around, and quickly saw his sister standing against the wall, arms around herself, vacant. Dalmatian maintained a respectful distance, but his swiveling, careful eyes showed that he was still on the job.
“Come on,” he heard. Leticia was offering a hand. He let her help him stand.
“I’m pissed off, too,” she said, “but maybe this was the only way.”
He exhaled, shaking his head, watching CEOs file past him. The room was emptying quickly. The remaining Tourists, unsure of what to do, were also leaving. Two dead bodies, that was all it had taken. And despite the outrage bubbling up, Milo knew Leticia was probably right.
“So what now?” she asked.