Sullivan nodded quickly, wiping mud from his glasses with a wet sleeve. “I need to get to him.”

“Not through the main elevators,” Giovanni said. “My men have the service lift locked down.”

Suddenly, a heavy metal door at the far end of the basement banged open.

Three men stepped into the room.

The man in the center wore a tailored wool coat and a cold, sharp smile.

It was Marcus Vance.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on Giovanni, then on me.

“You always did like the sewers, Giovanni,” Vance said.

His voice echoed off the concrete walls.

Behind him, two men in tactical gear raised their rifles.

The boots of the men from the tunnel began to slam against the locked hatch beneath our feet.

“Open the hatch, Giovanni,” Vance said. “Let my sweep team up.”

Giovanni did not move.

He stood in front of me, his posture relaxed and untroubled.

“You should have stayed in Chicago, Marcus,” Giovanni said.

Vance laughed, a dry, grating sound.

“Chicago is small time,” Vance said. “With the Boston ports and your old distribution list, I’ll have three states by morning.”