NATHAN JANG
The Jang Tower stood hollow in the dead of night, its polished lobby floors reflecting the cold glow of emergency exit signs. The security desk sat unmanned, a half-drunk coffee still steaming next to the silent monitors.
I took my private elevator and pressed the button for the sixtieth floor. The numbers climbed—30, 40, 50—each ding sounding like a countdown. I stepped out of the elevator alone, my jaw tight. Malone had called it an "incident." Knowing Fiona, that meant murdering anything from plants to computers to people.
Moonlight streamed through the wall of windows, painting silver streaks across the empty desks. The executive floor was too quiet. No assistants at their desks. No security at the doors. Just the hum of the air conditioning and the too-loud click of my dress shoes on marble.
I withdrew my cell phone from my jacket's inner pocket. "Malone? Where are you?"
