I stepped out of Rollo’s office, the shotgun and .45 angled toward the ground, but high enough to level them off if I needed to. As I backed down the hallway, each step reassured me that I’d get out of this alive. I reached the elevator and pushed the call button with the muzzle of my .45. The elevator chimed, the door opened and I stepped in.

Back in the car, I sent Bishop a text message telling him it was done. After hitting “send,” I fired the ignition and turned the wheel toward Manhattan Harbor.

I TUCKED THE SAWED-OFF UNDERNEATH my suit jacket and walked out of the building’s front door.

Still no traffic.

I dropped the shotgun behind the driver’s seat, stashed the .45 in the glove box and grabbed my spare key. A lump clung to the inside of my throat, and I braced for my lunch to make a second appearance, but it stayed down. It took three attempts to get the key into the ignition and six deep breaths before my hands stopped shaking enough to send Bishop the text message telling him it was done. After hitting “send,” I fired the ignition and turned the wheel toward Manhattan Harbor.