Fletcher:Do not arrive from south.
I looked up at the street sign ahead.
South would have been the prettier approach. It would also be the obvious direction.
Damn him again.
Farrow:Already turning.
Dane:Good.
We turned east, cutting around the block instead of taking the direct climb. The hill worked our lungs. Wiley’s breath shortened, but he didn’t complain.
At the corner, he slowed down . I followed his gaze.
A black SUV sat halfway down the next street. It could belong to The Guardians, but it could be something else.
I put a hand lightly against Wiley’s back and guided him past the corner.
“Keep walking,” I said.
“They might be watching.”
“I know.”
We moved one block over, then another. I sent the vehicle's location to Dane and Eamon, with make, model, and plate.
This time Dane didn’t text back.
The safehouse address sat on a narrow street with brick townhouses pressed shoulder to shoulder and window boxes gone dormant for the season. I didn’t see any obvious security cameras.
The front door was dark green with a brass knocker polished by use. A contractor I didn’t know opened before I knocked. They’d been watching us.
“Farrow,” he said.
I didn’t offer my hand. “Name?”
“Reed.”
“Who cleared you?”
“Michael McCabe.”
“Favorite thing about him?”
Reed blinked once. “Terrifying spreadsheets.”
The answer was good enough. I brought Wiley inside.
The entrance smelled faintly of lemon oil and old wood. Ahead was a staircase leading up and a narrow hallway to the left.
Wiley stopped just inside the door. He was looking at Dane, who stood at the far end of the hall. Cabot was behind him, pale but composed.
Dane’s dark hair was perfectly in place. His black overshirt sat cleanly over his shoulders. He checked me out immediately, but I didn’t see the want I’d noted in the bar.
Something about that was hotter.
Wiley spoke beside me. “We got a text.”