The couch was flanked by more beefy bodyguards, but Matt could see the back of a familiar white head between them. There were three heads in a row sitting on the long, high-backed couch: two close together and one slightly apart. The center head belonged to the white-haired Mr. Long. Someone with lots of bleached-blond hair was sitting close to him, their heads leaning toward each other as if the two were whispering. Someone else was sitting on their right, someone with wispy, thinning hair on a head cocked like a dog hearing a funny sound. Bookending the couch was a quartet of thugs, two on each end, big arms crossed. Matt couldn’t see their faces, but he was willing to bet that they were just as corrupt as their compadres in the elevator. Stacy’s breath was slowing, her fists unclenching, so Matt took his hand off her chest and gestured toward the left with his chin. She nodded, and the two of them started moving cautiously along the curved wall. As they moved, a second identical pair of steel doors was revealed, exactly opposite the first.
