Chapter 1079
Skye took the gun. It was cold. It felt like power.
“I won’t,” she said.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Beginning descent. Welcome to Atlantic City, Ms. Sterling.”
Below them, the coastline was a jagged edge of darkness meeting the grey Atlantic, pierced by the blazing sprawl of the Boardwalk. It looked like a jewel box spilled across velvet — beautiful, artificial, and dangerous.
“Let’s go crash a wedding,” Alistair said, checking his weapons.
Atlantic City smelled of salt spray, funnel cake, and desperation. The neon lights of the Boardwalk reflected in the puddles on the sidewalk, turning the dirty water into liquid rainbows.
They pulled up to Neptune’s Palace in a rented convertible. Skye adjusted her oversized sunglasses and leaned into Alistair. He was wearing a tuxedo, looking every inch the high-rolling gambler, but she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace. His eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, cataloguing threats.
“Showtime,” he whispered against her hair.
They walked up the steps. An Elvis impersonator was smoking a cigarette by the door. He winked at Skye. “Getting hitched, darlin’?”
“Something like that,” Skye smiled, flashing a diamond ring — a prop from their costume kit.
Inside, the chapel was empty save for a priest polishing a candlestick. He looked up, his eyes sharp and assessing. He wasn’t a priest. He moved like a soldier — his posture too rigid, his hands too calloused.
“We’re closed,” he said flatly.
“We have an appointment,” Alistair said, stepping forward. “With the choir director.”
The priest paused. “The choir doesn’t practice on Tuesdays.”
“They do for a Requiem Mass,” Skye said, dropping the code phrase Lee had blurted out in his panic.
The priest’s eyes narrowed. He studied them for a moment, then glanced at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. He reached under the podium and pressed a button.
A section of the wall behind the altar — a tacky mural of clouds and cherubs — slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Behind it was not a choir room. It was a reinforced steel elevator.
“Basement,” the priest said. “Don’t touch the walls.”
They stepped in. The doors closed, sealing them in silence. The elevator dropped. Fast. Skye’s stomach lurched.
“Deep,” Alistair noted, watching the floor indicator. “Three levels down. This is a cold storage facility.”
The doors opened.
They were no longer in a church. They were in a high-tech transfer station. Rows of servers hummed in climate-controlled glass cases. Men and women in headsets sat at terminals, monitoring data streams. At the far end of the room, a heavy blast door led to what appeared to be a subterranean transport tunnel connecting to the marina.
“Act natural,” Alistair murmured, taking Skye’s arm and guiding her confidently into the room.
They needed to find the transport logs.
“Terminal three,” Skye whispered, spotting an unmanned station near the back. “Cover me.”