A new message was incoming, but I didn’t look at it.

My hand was already slipping into my pocket, my fingers finding the small remote control transmitter.

“You’re too late,” I said.

Clara stopped, her brow furrowing.

“What is she talking about?” she asked Daniel.

Daniel looked at me, then at the glowing screen of my phone.

The freight elevator gate rattled again as the outer doors began to slide open.

The heavy steel doors parted with a wet, rusted groan.

Through the gap, the bright fluorescent light of the service corridor spilled across the dusty concrete floor of my studio.

Two men stepped out first.

They were not wearing the cheap suits of local security guards.

They wore the tailored gray wool of Daniel’s personal protection detail, their earpieces glinting under the bare bulbs.

Behind them stood Marcus Vance, the junior member of the Hayes Enterprises executive board, looking pale and sweating through his collar.

Beside Marcus was a woman holding a large television camera, her press badge swinging from a blue lanyard around her neck.

“What is this?” Clara asked, her voice dropping an octave.