Chapter 41 · The Box That Won't Open

"Cotter, you in there?" Fists on steel. "Doors are open. Gala's live on the concourse in six minutes and Petrie's already up top with the mic guy."

I'm still buttoning my blouse with fingers that don't work right. Torin's got his shirt half-tucked, jaw tight, hair wrecked in a way no comb is fixing in six minutes.

"Six minutes," I say. "For what."

"Founders' Commitment thing." He's already moving, kicking the pump housing shut, grabbing his jacket off the rail. "Sponsor gala before puck drop. Petrie sold it to the board as a confidence piece for the bondholders. Show the paperwork's clean. Show the marriage is real."

My stomach drops through the grating. "Show it how."

He doesn't answer. That's the answer.

We come up the tunnel stairs into noise — real noise, crowd noise, a hundred voices in cocktail clothes packed into the penalty box like it's a skybox instead of a place men bleed. Somebody's strung up a banner. BLACK ICE HOLDINGS — SEVEN GAMES OF FAITH.