But the heavy oak doors at the rear of the cathedral suddenly burst open, groaning loudly on their ancient hinges.

The sunlight from Fifth Avenue spilled into the center aisle, illuminating the silhouettes of a dozen men and women in dark windbreakers.

The letters F.B.I. were printed in stark yellow across their backs.

Adrian froze, his eyes widening in absolute terror.

But he wasn’t looking at the agents.

He was looking at the man walking in front of them—the head of his own accounting department, a man he thought he’d successfully bought off two years ago.

“You’re right about one thing, Adrian,” a voice boomed from the front row.