“They only ever visited once, months ago,” Troy said. “They might not remember where it was.”
Enda got up from the table and crossed to the front door, to check through the spyhole. Unconsciously she reached a hand inside her coat and rested her fingers on the grip of her pistol. “We shouldn’t have stayed here this long.”
Dax froze. “No. Soo-hyun wouldn’t.”
“Red beat Osman to death, so it’s not about what Soo-hyun would do.”
Dax buried his face in his hands.
“We need to get out of here,” Enda said. “Now.”
A digital klaxon wailed from Dax’s phone. He looked at the screen—flickering through a dozen photos of warning signs sourced from some public database. He looked to Enda and she nodded. He answered it, then immediately held the phone back from his ear as a siren screeched from its tiny speaker, crackling with the volume. He hung up and stared at the screen. “That was the AGI.”
“What?” Enda said.
“I know it sounds crazy, but trust me.”
Enda drew her pistol and Dax stared wide-eyed.
“What do you think it was trying to tell us?” Troy asked.
“You’re the AI-whisperer,” Enda said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Dax collected his rucksack from the floor while Troy crossed to the coatrack by the door. He put on a jacket and collected an umbrella before turning to Dax. “Do you need a coat?”
Dax shook his head. “Windbreaker’s waterproof.”
Enda opened the door a sliver, heard the thud and squeak of feet running up the stairwell. She shut the door. “Get down.”
Dax dropped to the floor, grabbed Troy’s hand, and pulled him down as well, the other man’s face a mask of fear and confusion. He stared from where he hid under the dining room table. Enda motioned for him to move aside, and they crawled to the far end of the apartment. Dax opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the thunder of gunfire.
Bullets punched through the front door, splinters burst from wooden wounds. The distinctive roar of a Kalashnikov on full automatic filled the air and growled through the floor. Everything shook with the vibration of violence.
The air choked with smoke and debris. Bullets scored the walls, bursting through the framed movie posters, raining glass across the room. Finally the sound died.
“Stay here,” Enda told the others, enunciating clearly so they would be able to read her lips. She crouch-walked across the room and stood in the corner beside the front door.
The splintered remains of the door erupted inward, and chunks of wood littered the floor. A skinny figure stepped through the opening—dressed in tattered black, holding a gaudy yellow semiautomatic pistol. Enda fired a single shot into the meat of his thigh—her P320 sounding flat after the rumble of the AK-47. He howled and dropped his gun as he fell onto his hands and knees. Blood soaked through his black jeans and pooled around his leg. He reached for his pistol and Enda fired again. The bullet shattered his shoulder blade and brought a new sound from someplace deep within him, a place of bestial rage and pain he probably never knew existed.
Enda knew that place. She had lived there for so long it felt like home.
She turned back to the corner and took cover as another burst of Kalashnikov fire split the air and tore through the apartment. In the heavy silence that followed, Enda heard the shink of a magazine dropping from the weapon and the terrified babble of sounds that spewed from Dax’s mouth. Troy was silent, his eyes squeezed shut, hands over his ears.
Enda pivoted into the doorway. Another four targets stood on the landing, drenched by the rain. One was armed with the Kalashnikov, the others with pistols gripped white-knuckle tight in both hands.
Five seconds.
Enda fired once, twice—each bullet struck a target, their shoulders wrecked by the passage of metal. Four. The two targets dropped with the force of impact and the sudden pain, and their pistols fell to the ground with a plastic clatter.
Three. Kalashnikov fumbled awkwardly with her spare magazine. The last gunner raised his pistol and Enda charged forward. A flash blinded her right eye and the gun’s report burst in Enda’s ear—she felt the muzzle heat on her cheek as the bullet passed over her shoulder.
Two. With her free hand, Enda stripped the pistol from the target’s hand, felt the snap of bone or tendon as the gun came away. One. She slammed the butt of her gun into his gut—his head came