Romano walked over to it, tracing a line with his index finger.

“The freight elevator bypasses the main security desk,” he said.

“It requires a physical key,” I noted, looking at the diagram.

“Which I have,” Romano said, tapping his pocket.

I walked over to one of the metal lockers and swung it open.

Inside were several rifles, handguns, and boxes of ammunition, neatly organized.

I pulled out a compact submachine gun, checking the bolt and slide.

“This will do,” I said.

Romano began loading magazines, his movements slow but precise.

“When we enter,” he said, “we do not stop for anyone. Tony’s office is on the fortieth floor.”

“The boardroom is next door,” I said. “That is where the celebration will be.”

Suddenly, the overhead light flickered once, then twice.

The hum of the warehouse’s old generator seemed to falter.

I lowered my weapon, listening closely to the silence of the basement.

From upstairs, the faint sound of a heavy metal door clicking open echoed down the stairwell.

I looked at Romano, my hand instinctively reaching for the pistol at my waist.