I put the knife in my belt. I pull on my jacket. I walk to the bedroom doorway. Renzo is sitting on the edge of the bed. Grace is sitting up, cross-legged, facing him. She's holding his hand with both of hers, her small fingers wrapped around his, and her right index finger is tapping his wrist.
"I have to go," I say.
Grace looks at me. She reads my face and she nods once.
"Come back," she says.
"Yes."
I leave and take the stairs two at a time. The morning is cold and the street is empty except for Renzo's rental and a delivery truck and, parked at the corner of Ninth, a black SUV with tinted windows.
Leone is behind the wheel. Claudio is in the passenger seat. Matteo is in the back, his laptop open on his knees, phone to his ear, running intel.
I get in the back next to Matteo. Leone pulls away from the curb.
"Motel on Columbus," Leone says. "Room 14. Claudio confirmed the vehicle is still in the lot. Both men are inside."
"Do we know if they've reported back to Royce?" I ask.
Matteo puts his phone down. "I intercepted a communication from the motel's Wi-Fi. Royce received a preliminary report last night. The Marinos are confirmed gone. The asset is confirmed at the restaurant. They have a physical description of Grace and a description of a male associate." He pauses. "The bartender gave them both before they killed him."
My hand goes to the knife. My grip tightens on the handle until my knuckles ache.
"They were going to go back today," Matteo continues. "The plan was to enter the restaurant during the dinner shift, confirm the asset visually, and extract. Standard network protocol for unsecured placements."
"Extract," I say.
"Relocate. New city, new identity, new family, new pills. Grace disappears again. That was the plan."
"That's not happening."
"No," Leone says from the driver's seat. "It's not."
We drive. The motel is twelve minutes from the restaurant. A two-story building on Columbus Boulevard, faded siding, a parking lot half-full of trucks and sedans. The kind of place that rents by the night and doesn't ask questions and has a security camera system that stopped working three years ago and was never fixed.
Leone parks across the lot from Room 14. A gray rental sedan with Delaware plates is parked in front of the door.
"Claudio," Leone says.
Claudio opens the glove compartment and removes a suppressor. He attaches it to a handgun and checks the magazine and the chamber before he puts the weapon inside his jacket.
"Matteo," Leone says.
Matteo closes the laptop. He pulls a small black case from under the seat. Inside: a set of lock picks, a roll of plastic sheeting, zip ties, and a phone cloning device. He puts the case inside his coat.
"Carmelo," Leone says.
I pull the knife.
Leone looks at me in the rearview mirror. His face is hard, ready for the kill.
"Clean," he says. "Both of them. Then we're done in Philadelphia."
We get out.
Claudio takes the perimeter. He walks the length of the building, checking windows, checking exits, counting the occupied rooms by the vehicles in the lot. He comes back with two fingers raised. Two occupied rooms on this side of the building. Room 14 and Room 18. Room 18 has a pickup truck with Pennsylvania plates. Not ours.
Matteo handles the lock. Room 14 has a standard motel deadbolt, the kind that costs eight dollars at a hardware store. He's through it in six seconds. He pushes the door open three inches and steps to the side.