Excerpt from The Ascent by Adam Plantinga, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Argento didn't wait. He turned to walk. He didn't know why the prison technology had taken a dive at the Whitehall Correctional Institute, but it didn't have much to do with him. He figured he'd go find an empty cell or room and ride this one out, and if any more prisoners got in his way, he'd give them all they could handle. He had nowhere to be until Monday when court was in session. The troopers, the guards, and Brown Suit were no doubt big boys and could take care of themselves—and if they couldn't, that was on them.

But then there was the nurse. And the girl with the notebook. Neither were cops or correctional staff, and the prisoner assault in the infirmary showed the nurse already had a sizable target on her back. In this place, so would the girl with the notebook. There was something else about her. She was on a tour, not with a student group, but all by herself. And on a holiday, no less. That seemed strange to Argento. He wouldn't think the jail would have the time or inclination to take students on a tour one at a time. It meant something that they had catered just to her. And, not for nothing, she had a two-trooper escort. He wanted to know more, and the residual cop in him made stop.

"Who's she?" he asked, pointing to the girl with the notebook.

"You don't even need to look at her," the Black trooper said to Argento. He took two steps towards him and then stopped short.

Because the white trooper had a gun in his hand.

It was a silver subcompact with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel designed to fit easily in a pocket. An NAA Guardian, Argento thought, with a short magazine that probably held no more than six rounds. The trooper pointed it at Argento's midsection, his arm fully extended. The adrenaline dump from the infirmary fight had faded, but seeing the gun leveled sent the chemical wash right back through him.

"We told you to piss off," the white trooper said. "So do it."

"How'd you get that in here?" Brown Suit asked.

"Crotched it," the white trooper said, his eyes flicking away from Argento toward Brown Suit.

"They patted you down." Brown Suit's voice trailed off.

"Guys don't like touching other guys' junk, even in here."

"You can't have–" Brown Suit began, his voice an ineffectual whine, and the white trooper cut him off.

"Don't care about your rules. I work narcotics undercover. I take a gun everywhere."

Brown Suit turned to the Black trooper. "Did you know about this?"

The Black trooper shook his head. "But given the circumstances, it ain't gonna hurt us."

"You can relax, Samaritan," the white trooper told Argento. "You don't need to know who she is. She's got all the help she needs. Now for the last time, walk. Or your head is where I'm gonna keep my bullets."

Your head is where I'm gonna keep my bullets. It sounded like a line he'd stolen from some shitty gangster movie. The white trooper was close to Argento. Too close. And his arm was still fully extended instead of held snug to his body for proper tight quarters firearm retention. He was used to pointing guns at people and gaining compliance. Argento's experience had been different as an officer in inner-city Detroit. He had pointed guns at hardened parolees who had laughed at him. Who had refused to prone out on the ground when commanded to do so. I ain't no dog, they'd said.

Argento put his hands up in resignation, but it was all for show. What he was going to do next required a supreme belief in his own abilities and no small amount of doubt in the abilities of the white trooper. The former he had. The latter was an educated guess. The trooper was full of bravado, and Argento was betting big on it not being earned. He had momentarily taken his eyes off Argento when Brown Suit had asked him a question, which was a tactical blunder. Plus he had a stupid mustache.

Argento had three more things going for him. The first was fast hands. The second was that the trooper's finger was off the trigger of his firearm, as all police training dictated, because he hadn't yet committed to shoot. And the third was that action beats reaction, every time.

Excerpted from The Ascent by Adam Plantinga. Copyright © 2024 by Adam Plantinga. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.