Find myself turning the corner on the eighteenth floor of the Millennium, my radar vibing bad shit.

I pause, back up around the wall. My shoes are still damp from the basement back at the Chelsea Market. Can’t feel my face.

I reconfirm the key is in my front pocket and the keycard in my rear right. Wearing the radio.

Feeling hyperaware, uncomfortably so; everything is slightly too detailed, too real. I encounter this state frequently. That is, after I’ve killed multiple people.

Take another look down the hall. From my perspective here, it looks as if the door to our original booking is slightly ajar.

Praise Allah I got that extra room, and I hope to fuck Iveta is still in it, sitting tight. And my briefcase. The hand.

Pull my Beretta. Come around the corner and up against the far wall. Move down the carpeted hallway. I really don’t want to hurt anybody else today, but so fucking help me, if Iveta is in any way endangered I’ll do it happily.

Ease the door open with my gun. The lock has been jimmied in a rather ugly fashion, big gouges in the wood, the reverse end of a hammer or a crowbar.

There’s an envelope, the hotel’s stationary, stuck to the front door. My initials on it, D.D. For the moment, I leave that alone.

I can see partially into the space. It’s been trashed. Hairs on the back of my neck go erect. What the hell is wrong with security up in this joint? Embarrassing.

Listen. A television, down the hall maybe. I wait for ten seconds, breathing, don’t hear anything new, so I step inside.

The couch is cut up, the mattress slit straight down the middle. Air-conditioning panels have been pulled off the walls. It’s a complete and total. Pillows, the leather on the desk, all slashed wide open. It’s comprehensive.

I check the closet. Check the bathroom … chunks of porcelain cover the floor, the toilet decimated. Incredible. Whoever came through here must have had a bagful of tools.

Stepping out of the bathroom, fuck, too late, there’s that nanosecond in which I sense the proximity of a human. I walk right into the barrel of another Sig Sauer.

At the end of which is Iveta.

I’m afraid she’s going to pull the trigger so I’m ducking out of the way, on automatic pilot, am about to take her down, woah, check myself, I’ve got her around the midsection … She pirouettes away, lets out a torrent of gibberish, then: “Jesus, you scared me so much. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

She collapses on the disemboweled couch, dropping her gun. Wearing the dress I snagged for her. Looks good in it.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. I almost shot you.”

Rubbing my forehead, the veneer of sweat, I say, “Well, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“Jesus,” she says, her lip trembling. “What happened to your mouth?”

“Oh. Just … I fell down.”

Realize she’s weeping. Shaking. “Tell me … Yakiv … or maybe don’t tell me.”

Not sure what to do. I crouch down next to her. “Okay.”

She looks up at me, her face contorted, smeared. “No, tell me.”

I contemplate how to put it. Not exactly sure. I just look at her.

She puts her face in her hands, shoulders bouncing up and down. Sobbing.

“Iveta …”

Reaching out, she grabs my hand. It’s not letting up. She’s got her mouth open and is just keening. It’s awful. I honestly don’t know what to do and I tell her this.

“Iveta, I don’t know what you want me to do, what you want me to say.”

We sit for a time. It starts to subside into hiccups. She has one hand pressed against her eyes. “Why am I like this? It’s just … Okay, now it becomes real. I need. I’m sorry, there’s lot of history.”

“I can understand. I think.”

“Don’t want you to think you did this, the wrong thing.”

“No, believe me. I have no doubt.”

“I don’t cry for him. I cry because it’s all fucked and ugly.”

She’s gripping my hand. I’m desperately bad at this stuff. Just freeze up. Her breathing begins to slow. She laughs. It’s a brittle sound.

“Sorry. I cry a lot, okay.”

I think she’s recovering. I try to be gentle. But like I said, I am vibing very bad shit.

“Who was here, do you have any idea?”

Shakes her head. “Don’t know, it was terrifying me. They just destroy this room, look for something, I don’t know what. I listened next door. So loud. I tried to call downstairs, no one answers. Oh my God, thank you for this, thinking of another room for us, I don’t know what they would have done …”

I’ve got a pretty good sense of what this is all about.

“Did you see … on the door?” she says.

“Yeah, did you read it?”

Iveta shakes her head no. I go grab the envelope. Open it, carefully.

Hotel letterhead. Neat, small handwriting, black pen. Masculine lines, written quickly.

Attn Mr. Decimal: A Proposal

Surrender my property.

Surrender the woman.

In exchange:

Your continued good health.

Your liberty.

Your library.

Hoping for a timely conclusion to this episode.

Contact at yr earliest convenience.

Bst regards,

B. Petrovic

Ball it up, stick it in my pocket.

Iveta stirs. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Doesn’t matter. Give me a second to think.”

I go in the bathroom. Douse my hands in Purell^TM. In the shattered mirror I see Hakim Stanley, his eye a blank space, looking back at me. Mouthing, You. I turn my head quick, pushing the vision away …

“It’s Daniel,” she says from the other room. “Yeah? His people. I know it. He will hurt me. Best case, deport me. He said he would. They’ll put me in prison.”

Hot water. I grab a towel, dab at my lips. Return to Iveta, drop the towel. “Okay, get your stuff together. We gotta move.”

Iveta, seated, gazes up at me, snot and tear streaked. Her eyes, damp and ocean-green. “Right now? Jesus, where do we go?”

I take out my key. It’s worn and brass and nothing special, but now it all makes sense. A convergence.

The key, warm in my palm.

“Only one place jumps to mind,” I say.